


Just Desserts

by Scarlett_Peacock



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Chocolate, F/M, Outlander - Freeform, Pâtisserie, baking au, food au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:24:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 74,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9505229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlett_Peacock/pseuds/Scarlett_Peacock
Summary: Claire Beauchamp, a respected and renowned Pastry Chef finds herself in need of a partner to compete in the World Chocolatier Championship. In walks Jamie Fraser, the devilishly handsome owner of Broch Morda, a Scottish restaurant combining old flavours and new ideas. As the temperature rises in the kitchen, and sparks of Mayan magic fly, can Claire and Jamie keep it strictly just desserts?





	1. Vianne

CHAPTER ONE: Vianne.

 

Claire remembered quite fondly the moment that chocolate had truly gotten under her skin, igniting a sweetened passion for anything confectionery. During a stay in Rouen, France while her Uncle Lamb dug for military treasures, she found herself wandering alone through the cobbled streets of the historic quarter. She was no stranger to being alone, walking with a confidence far more developed than her eleven years of life. The city brought her the opportunity to satisfy curiosity. To be excited by the new, and the foreign, and to gather knowledge she didn’t have. She had spent days wandering the streets, past the Gros Horloge, the Palais de Justice and the Aitre Saint-Maclou, with it’s carved skull and crossbones, a reminder of its deathly purpose.

She had journeyed further that day, wandering down the shopping streets filled with tourists and city dwelling inhabitants. The timber buildings surrounding her were enchanting, as if from a fairy-tale. Painted reds, browns, blacks and creams, they reminded her of Hansel and Gretel, wandering to the witch’s cottage. It was during this moment that the scent caught her, drifting richly and temptingly through the air. 

Claire followed her nose, down the labyrinth of shops, to a building framed in dark mahogany wood, brushed with a fading turquoise blue paint. A white sign edged with vivid gold decorated the glass, clearly painted by a careful hand. “Vianne - Patissier & Chocolatier” it read, proudly. The window revealed to her a display of glass shelves, decorated lavishly with gold ribbons, pink confectionary boxes and pink peony sugar roses. Claire could almost smell the flowers behind the glass; the chocolate of the truffles stacked inside the bell jars, the Macarons standing to attention like soldiers in golden boxes; dressed in vivid shades of pink, violet and green. She placed her hands against the glass, devouring the sight before her greedy, young eyes. The sweet promises that lay before her, behind this glass – how could she neglect herself the experience of such paradise?

Tearing herself away, she pushed open the turquoise door, the wood smooth beneath her fingertips. A bell rang overhead, dinging pleasantly followed by a melodic “Bonjour mademoiselle” from the confectioner. Claire hadn’t noticed the voice, instead, overwhelmed with the delightful spectacle before her. The walls of the shop were the same blue as the frames outside and edged with the same gold paint, only deeper and richer. As the light shone through the windows, an ethereal glow was cast across the store. A kaleidoscope of colours cast by jar lined shelves, each filled with confections and ingredients stored in long glass jars, decorated with golden cursive covered labels. Domes covered delicate and delectable sugar craft; flowers, butterflies and vibrantly striped petit fours. A large counter sat in the center of the shop, framed by two blue columns. The sheer aroma of sugar swirled her senses, teasing and tempting her with tastes of caramel, chocolate, orange and rose. She had found herself a wonderland, Claire thought. Reminiscent of Wonka’s Factory, but entirely more beautiful and perfect. As she gazed on, eyes filled with wonder, an awestruck smile graced her delighted face. 

“Voulez-vous essayer quelque chose, Mademoiselle?” The Chocolatier’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and Claire looked up to see a raven-haired woman smiling down at her, dressed in a kimono decorated with large, vibrant peacock feathers. 

“Oh!” Claire exclaimed, hesitating for a moment before stammering in broken French, “Parlez vous en Anglaise?”. 

The woman laughed and nodded, “I asked if you would like to try something.” She spoke with a smooth voice, Claire realized, words flowing like luscious caramel. 

Claire’s eyes went wide with awe, a grin crossing her face. “Would you mind terribly?” The woman shook her head and walked to one of the large shelves, plucking a domed platter from it and placing it onto the large wooden counter that sat center of the shop. 

An elegant hand lifted the dome, placed it carefully beside the platter and picked out a single, perfect praline chocolate. She handed it to Claire, placing it into the palm of her outstretched hand. “I have a talent for knowing what people want.” The Chocolatier smiled, confidently and delightedly. “Go ahead, chéri.” she said, nodding her head as Claire looked to her for confirmation.

With a delicate motion, she plucked the chocolate from her hand and raised it to her lips. Claire took a careful bite, only to be greeted by a rush of orange liqueur filling her mouth, exquisitely tart. The taste swirled luxuriously across her tongue, the delicate and smoky cardamom spice teasing her tastebuds with memories of bonfires. 

Claire was enchanted.

\---------

From that day, and into the weeks that followed, Claire returned to the Chocolatier every day, watching as new confections were placed onto the waiting shelves. After her first visit, she had gone straight to the first bookstore she could find, picking out books on Patisserie and Chocolatier work, marvelling with a fierce curiosity. Claire had poured over books on the Maya and Aztecs, reading with wonder at their practice, their love of chocolate. Her Uncle had acknowledged her interest, bringing home history books and guides. She had folded pages, torn out pictures and taken them with her to Vianne, showing her with excitement what she had found.

In the beginning, Vianne taught her the history. “Without knowledge, you cannot progress.” Vianne told her as a matter of fact. Chocolate would be a serious business for Claire, and she would learn to respect, understand and master the art.

“The Maya” Vianne began,“ believed that cacao was the food of the gods. Revered in their day to day life, it was consumed on the very best of occasions.” Her story continued with wonder, leaving Claire in curious awe. Their chocolate was different to the delights Claire had nibbled at, indulging her developing sweet tooth. It was bitter, filled with chili’s and spices, and poured back and forth, making a froth that would burst on the tongue as you drank it. “Chocolate could bring on love, happiness, passion and fuel desire,” Vianne revealed, watching Claire with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “If you care enough to learn, chocolate can be magic at your fingertips.”

After several months of regular visits, Claire arrived one morning to an apron waiting for her behind the counter. She looked at it with curiosity, wondering if Vianne would ask her to work in her shop where should could fill her days with bonbons, pralines and Macarons. Vianne, however, had another offer to make.

With each passing visit Claire had made, Vianne knew that something had ignited in Claire. Her excitement and passion were infectious. She would teach her, she decided. For as long as Claire was in Rouen, she would teach her the art. How to crush the cacao beans and extract the nibs from the dust, to tempering chocolate and decorating even the smallest of truffles.

“If I let you into my kitchen, you must behave, yes? This is no small task, Claire. If you wish to learn, you must respect yourself, your ingredients and your masters.” Vianne had knelt to Claire’s eyeline, looking at her intently. Claire had furiously nodded, with a cross drawn over her heart. Vianne looked intently at her, and with a small nod of approval, Claire had excitedly ran for the kitchen door to the heaven waiting before her. 

\---------

Claire made her first batch of chocolates several weeks later under the watchful eye of Vianne. A small plate of dark chocolates filled with the cosy sweetness of vanilla cream to off-set the bitterness, and a small pink flower adorning the top with charming precision. Standing in her chef whites, she wrung her hands nervously. Claire was hopeful that Vianne would praise her for the small creation, that she might be allowed to continue her study. 

With a judge's eye Vianne held the chocolate between her thumb and forefinger, assessing it from all angles. She scrutinized its appearance, its texture between her fingers before she had actually taken a bite of it. Claire took in a heavy breath as Vianne had bitten into the chocolate, the shell making an audible cracking noise as it was bitten into. A sign of a good chocolate, Claire thought confidently. All was silent, and each passing moment felt a thousand times longer. Vianne made no sign as to her enjoyment or distaste, simply standing as she slowly chewed and swallowed. 

“Well?” Claire asked, anticipation evident in her voice.

“Good.” Vianne replied, leaving Claire felt a mixture of relief and defeat wash over her. She had hoped Vianne would exclaim its excellence, that her protégée would be the next master Chocolatier. She looked back at her chocolates her expression and manner despondent, wondering why Vianne had not responded in the way she had hoped.

“Claire, ma cheri.” She had begun, Claire’s attention away from her. “You have done well, but they are not perfect – not yet. Do not be disheartened.“ Vianne placed her hand onto her shoulder, turning her body to face hers. “You have a gift.”

\---------

With the greatest of revelations, however, reality can come crashing in unexpectedly. 

It was at this time that Claire received the news that her Uncle had finished his dig in Rouen, having been offered the opportunity to be part of a dig in Senegal, West Africa. The swift realization that Claire would have to leave behind the city and Vianne became alarmingly apparent. 

She had cried of course, begging Lamb to leave her behind for a while so she might continue her culinary education in France. Her Uncle had refused immediately, providing a short apology and a firm assurance that he simply could not leave her alone in a foreign city with a complete stranger. Within the week, she and her Uncle were packed and making the briefest of goodbyes to their new friends. Laden with a heavy heart, Claire left Rouen with quiet tears rolling down her young face. She watched as the slights sped past the car windows, hand holding a necklace gifted to her by Vianne and a parting piece of wisdom; 

“You must remember, Claire, above all else - cacao can unlock the yearning of your heart, but it cannot force one heart to love another. Do not forget, or you may find yourself in trouble one day.”

\--------------------------------------

I do hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Just Desserts, and I thank you for taking the time to read it! I hope it has left you hungry for more...   
Updates will come every Sunday. 

Disclaimer: This is purely of my own creation, Outlander isn’t mine, nor or are Claire and Jamie. If they were that 20 year gap wouldn’t have happened.


	2. Gleneagles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie Fraser is coming to the end of a weekend with the clan to celebrate the impending wedding of his best friend, Ian Murray. His final evening brings him to the restaurant of Chef Fairlie where ten delectable courses wait.... and the meeting of a lifetime.

He had wanted to visit chef Fairlie’s restaurant for years. It was the only restaurant in Scotland that held two Michelin stars and he had heard nothing less than praise of somewhat Biblical proportions about the atmosphere, the experience and better yet, the menu. When Ian had suggested a golf weekend for his stag party, Jamie had jumped at the opportunity to book them into the Gleneagles Hotel, sparing no expense for his best friend.

Jamie had planned it all singlehandedly, taking his duties as best man, best friend of the groom, and brother of the bride very seriously. Ian had asked for no fuss and no madness, just the men of the family getting together for a weekend of relaxation, golf, and good food. Certain members of their family, namely Angus and Rupert, had quite vocally aired their disappointment at the plans. They had of course been quite promptly silenced by the gruff voice of Murtagh Fraser, who, in no uncertain terms, had spelled out in a rather colourful tongue that it was Ian’s weekend, and they would do what Ian wanted to do.

Jamie felt such a rush of excitement knowing that after three days of golf, whisky and general gentlemanly repartee, a dining table for eight sat waiting for them. His fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons as he attempted to finish dressing for the evening. Grey suit and white shirt, brogues cleaned to a high shine and hair – well he would give his curly red locks a comb when he had the opportunity to.

As he finally finished with the last button, he picked up his suit jacket, putting it on right arm then left and pulling it down at the bottom to straighten out any last minute creases that might have appeared.

“Looking sharp, Fraser.” Jamie said, admiring himself in the mirror.

The note in the email for the restaurant dining wear had said smart, and Jamie knew that he had few opportunities to really crack out his favourite suit. He thought of Mrs Fitz back in the restaurant, knowing that given the opportunity to see him dressed up, she would have paraded him around the streets of Glasgow shouting for the women of Scotland to come grab themselves “a bonny lad”.

His thoughts falling to Mrs Fitz reminded him of his call earlier, and the short and sharp promise he had made on the golf course to call Fergus before he left his room for the rest of the evening. Picking up his phone from the side table, he punched in Fergus’ name and pressed call, waiting for a dial tone. Jamie knew he was expected downstairs no later than seven, and it was only ten to – a quick five minute call wouldn’t particularly cause any issue.

“Fergus? Hello lad how’s today been?”

He sat down onto the bed, the mattress dipping under the weight of his body.

“Ye behaving? Mrs. Fitz’ll tell me if yer not.” He waited for an answer, a small voice speaking English peppered with a French accent insisted he had been nothing but charming all day. “And school? Ha’ the last two days been okay? That arse of a lad Thompson is no’ bothering ye is he?”  
He and Fergus continued to talk, Jamie smiling as he spoke to him and laughing at his retelling of stories from his day. He suddenly guffawed with laughter, his hand holding his chest as he managed to sputter out, “I'm the adult here ye wee sod! I'll behave myself as I see fit!”  
Jamie however had not noticed that five minutes of laughter, of a brief chat with the lad had instead turned into almost a half hour. A loud, stern knock resounded off the chestnut coloured door into his room.

Jamie looked up, his eyes widening with shock at the interruption. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table and swore in Gaelic. “I hate to interrupt ye but I think Ian might be about to kill me – I just noticed the time, ken? I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Bye lad – bye.” He hung up the phone, quickly slip it into the pocket of his suit.

Another knock sounded, and Jamie stood like a bolt of lightning. He twisted the cold doorknob and pulled open the door to reveal a rather impatient Ian Murray, eyes burning and jaw set with annoyance.

“Twenty minutes late. We’ve all been standing downstairs, lad! What’ve you been doing!?” Ian’s voice was terse making Jamie flinch.

“Sorry, I ken! I was just checking in wi’ Fergus! I didn’t realize the time!” Jamie darted back to the side table and picked up the room key and into the corridor.

“That’s a piss poor excuse, Jamie. Piss poor.”

“Aye! I ken! But it’s the truth so I can only apologise!” Ian stepped back as Jamie pulled the door closed behind him.

“Aye well that doesn’t really cut it!”

Jamie walked ahead, raising his eyebrows and rolling his eyes at Ian. “Ye sound exactly like Jenny, lad. Ye ken? Exactly.”

He came to a stop at the elevator, Ian arriving next to him a second later.

“That’s because she’s right, ken? It’s my stag weekend – an’ all I’ve seen you do is check that phone between holes on the course. Ye need to get yer head out of that kitchen for more than five seconds. Ye work constantly, ye ne'er so much as twice looked at a lass. Ye can't have marriage and bairns wi' an oven!” Jamie knew Ian was exasperated, but he had delivered the lowest blow he could give him.

Jamie turned to face him filled with anger and aggravated indignation. “I’ve got Jenny reminding me constantly, I dinna need you of all people giving me a laying into! I ken it’s yer weekend, but I dinna need reminding of my lack of wife and children. I dinna choose to be alone, Ian.” Jamie spat back, his chest heaving under the weight of the words. “When the woman of my dreams goes walking by, I’ll drop it all and chase after her. Until then, leave it and let’s enjoy the damn meal.”

He stared forward wondering where on earth the damn elevator was so he might get away from the situation. Ian however took hold of the top of his arm, squeezing it. “I dinna want to fight, so I apologise for that. It was a low hit. Just… for the rest of the evening be part of the group, aye?” Jamie watched his best friend, eyes pleading with him. “Or I’ll make Angus the best man.” Despite himself, he smirked at Ian.

“As if Jenny would let ye do that, sunshine.” Jamie clapped Ian on the back, once, twice and smiled.

\-------

Jamie and Ian arrived downstairs to meet the irate faces of the rest of his family, feeling at once guilty for his lateness. A chorus of jeering and Gaelic curses spewed from their mouths, to be met equally by the same from Jamie. The clan walked down the long, orange lit corridor and into the restaurant, which Jamie realized quite suddenly was, in a word, lavish. The dark walls, the golden seats, and silken cream table cloths sung out in testament to its opulence. They had been seated along the far right wall, greeted by plush chairs and perfectly placed plates and cutlery. Jamie couldn’t help but marvel at the arrangement, desperately trying to remember every detail so he might somehow take them back to Glasgow with him.

They had been seated toward the left hand side, with a perfect view of the kitchen. A card sat on each plate, edged with gold and the insignia of the hotel. In black letters, bold against the cream paper, the feast for the evening was spelled out. His eyes wandered down the page, growing greedier by the second.

Ballotine Of Foie Gras, Spiced Apple and Walnut Milk  
Roast Langoustine, Crab and Butternut Squash  
Roast Fillet of Seabass, Parsnip and Vanilla Puree  
Wild Mushroom and Truffle Ravioli, Pumpkin Velouté  
Home Smoked Scottish Lobster, Warm Lime and Herb Butter  
Roast Loin of Highland Lamb, Crushed Celeriac and Lamb Jus  
Whipped Crowdie, Beetroot and Blossom Honey  
Hazelnut and Muscovado Cake, Poached Pear and Caramel Ice Cream  
Coffee and Chocolates

Jamie hoped that the men liked his choices. If they didn’t he wouldn’t hear the end of It. He’d tried to cater to everyone. No vegetarians in the group so nothing was off the menu. Having as many tasting courses presented him with the opportunity to taste a range of flavours, textures, experience something new in each mouthful. Rich and sweet, simple and delicate, Chef Fairlie and his team would, Jamie hoped, provide him with inspiration to take home. His heart thrummed at the prospect, as much as his stomach rumbled and mouth watered.

As they waited, they chatted casually over everything and nothing. The wedding came up of course, Jamie assuring all that Lallybroch would be ready for the event and that the walk in refrigerator they had hired for the cake would be housed in one of the empty stables. Jamie leant forward, clearly stating that he had promised his sister several times that the cake would indeed be safe with him, but had she listened? Not a chance.

Dougal inquired as to whether the kilts had been delivered, Jamie realizing with a start that he hadn’t in fact called the kiltmaker back after he’d left the message on his answer phone several days earlier. “Aye, Uncle. They’ll be delivered on the 16th, last fitting’s next week in Edinburgh. Dinna forget again!” Willie asked if they’d be wrangling young Jamie into the car again for a kilt fitting, leaving the table in a fit of laughter as Jamie shook his head with wide eyes stating quite firmly that “the child isn’t coming into my car again, ken?! I still haven’t got that strawberry stuff off the seats!”

\---

The plates arrived in succession shortly after they had been seated and presented with their first drink of the evening.

The Foie Gras came first, temptingly melting on his tongue and the following course of delicately roasted Langoustine had fallen apart in his mouth at first bite. The Seabass, while good, was not his favourite. He felt a pang of disappointment at the lack of feeling in the dish while he watched Willie almost lick the plate clean. The mushroom and truffle ravioli had almost floored him after taking his first bite. The combination of the hearty, meat like texture and the salty richness of the truffle overwhelmed him. This one, this dish, Jamie thought, he would try to recreate at home. He had to admit to himself that he would not be taking home the military precision timing of Chef Fairlie’s kitchen. No doubt attempting to break the habits of a lifetime of his band of chef’s back home would cause more trouble than it would be worth.

There was a longer break between courses after the ravioli, with glasses filled and chattering going on around him. He watched the diners around him, sipping from crystal glasses holding the deepest of Burgundy wines and sparkling, golden ciders. Each of them devoured delicacies, smiling and closing their eyes when a bite of pure delight crossed their lips. Jamie finally caught the kitchen doors opening to the left of him, revealing flashes of the operation happening behind them. He wondered what alchemy they created amidst the beehive of activity sure to be occurring. A flurry of hands and plates, pans on stove tops and oven doors behind slammed closed. No doubt an operation of cooks ten times the size of his kitchen in Broch Morda. 

The famed Gleneagles lobster appeared exactly an hour after they had sat down and Jamie had almost rubbed his hands together in delight as the plate was placed over his left shoulder and onto the table in front of him. Smoked lobster deliciously drenched in a warm lime and herb butter. The simplest food, but the most delicate flavour. He licked the dripping butter from the corner of his lips as he took modest forkfuls of the sweet white meat from its shell.

The general consensus he had gotten from the table was one of sheer delight at the amount of food, but also that deciding to get the accompanying drinks package had been a wise decision. Rosy flushes had graced Angus, Rupert and Willie’s faces, while his Uncles sat looking quite serious as they mumbled over their next course, the highland lamb. His Godfather had barely spoken more than six words to a sentence all evening, instead nibbling away at his food and taking sips of wine intermittently. Jamie was not surprised though – any other behaviour from the grizzly older gentleman would have had him worried.

Whipped Crowdie, beetroot and blossom honey arrived as their closing savoury dish. Jamie remembered weekends in the kitchen at Lallybroch watching his mother making Crowdie over the sink, straining it in heavy white muslin. The blossom honey had tickled the back of his throat, its fragrant scent and warm sweetness bringing back memories of sneaking spoons of it from the dark jars in the pantry. 

Another break fell into place as the plates were taken from the table and the gents shifted in their seats from the luxuriously tempting food that had graced them that evening. As each plate arrived, Jamie had favoured the next more than the last. He had tried to savour each bite, to understand the construction of it; the flavour, the plating, the way in which is was constructed on the plate. “Ye taste food with the eyes before tasting with the mouth” his mother had told him one cold morning when he was eight. The comment had never felt more appropriate. 

As the final plate was delivered, Jamie’s eyes grew wider than they had been all evening. Hazelnut and muscovado cake, poached pear and caramel ice cream. That’s what the menu had said. Instead, he’d been presented with a piece of alchemy. He stared at the plate, observing and critiquing each aspect of it, from its balance to the layering in the cake. It was a dense texture on the crumb, it’s got a golden finish to it and a dark stickiness to the top from the sprinkled muscovado sugar. Jamie looked up to see the rest of the table eating the dessert already, and he left behind.

He picked up the silver spoon, highly polished and cold to the touch and cut the cake with the side of it, careful to ensure a taste of all of the components would be there for the first taste. Upon touching his tongue, the flavours exploded. Each flavour distinct to the palette, standing together in a unique harmony. The stickiness clung to the teeth of the muscovado, a deep delicious molasses flavour. The softest sweetness of the pear cut through the sugar, a warm fresh taste that sat sweetly in compliment to the complexity of the cake. The caramel ice-cream, flecked with edible gold tasted luxurious. Smooth and creamy, dripping down the sides of the piece of cake, pooling at the base. Jamie was in heaven – an absolute sugar filled bliss at the craftsmanship that has gone into the creation of the dessert. 

There was something though, in the back of his mind that he knew, despite its absolute perfection, that made it ever so slightly imperfect. He savoured each bite, the sweetness dancing across his tongue as he tried to figure out what it was. With the last mouthful, it hit him.  
He had hoped to speak to chef Fairlie himself, but now he felt entirely too distracted by the need to speak to the Patissier. He knew Ian would mention his work obsession to Jenny and make reference to it later no doubt, but he needed to speak to the creator.  


\------- 

When the table had been cleared, and the gents all sat entirely too full and thoroughly content, Jamie knew this would be his opportunity to find someone who might be able to help him. Spotting a lone member of the service staff, he excused himself from the table for a brief moment, heading straight toward a petite woman with blonde hair who stood at the back of the room. She smiled sweetly at him, her cheeks flushed with exertion.

With careful wording, he inquired as to whether she might be able to speak with the Patissier to see if they had a moment to speak with him. She had smiled again, rushed off to the kitchen and left Jamie feeling ever so slightly exposed.

She reappeared a moment later, still smiling. “She’s a little busy at the moment, but she said if you can wait until the end of service she’ll see you.”

“That’s brilliant, thank ye. Who am I looking for?” Jamie asked enthused.

“Claire. She’s got brown curly hair, tall, and she’s got a grey coat with her. She usually walks through the bar at around 11:30pm? You’d be best catching her there.”

“Thank ye for your help…-” He faltered on her name, having failed to ask earlier.

“Ginny - and you’re very welcome. Is there anything else I might help you with?” She smiled at him once again and he simply shook his head, grinning widely showing his teeth.

“No, but thank ye again. Ye are a wonder, Ginny.” She turned away from him and back onto the floor sporting a furious blush at Jamie’s charm.

Jamie walked back over to the table, passing the neighbouring guests, catching brief scents of duck and sugar as he passed. Unbeknownst to Jamie, Murtagh had watched the exchange quite amusedly. As Jamie sat down once more, Murtagh leant over to Jamie, closing the gap between them and whispered, “Ye’re as bad as yer father for charming the lasses.” Murtagh chuckled, sat right again and finished off his coffee with a smirk.

\----

Upon entering the Gleneagles bar after a rather wobbly legged walk down the labyrinth of cream and gold corridors, Colum had half demanded a round of whisky for all the gents. Jamie knew that this signalled one of his famous “don’t worry it’ll be short!” speeches, in which Colum spoke with vehement passion in public spaces and drew dozens of pairs of eyes to their table. He had been right, of course. Within the first minute of the arrival of the Balvenie on the table, Colum had stood, gripping the edge to counteract his wavering balance.

“Well lads, it’s our last night of this fantastic weekend - if I do say so myself! We’re raising our glasses to young Ian here, on his last night of freedom! ” The men cheered, laughing with vigor as Ian was elbowed and nudged several times by his neighbours.

Colum continued, face flushed with drink and contentment. “So, Ian, in the absence of Brian, I’ll speak on his behalf.” He paused for a moment, adding sarcastically, “And dinna worry - I’ll keep it short!” The table laughed in unison once more, a jeering echo of “Aye!” in response.  
“We’re proud to welcome you into the family as a nephew, a brother, and as Jenny’s husband. I know he and Ellen would have been delighted to have you as a son.” The table went quiet for a moment, all remembering the sharp loss of Brian and Ellen Fraser. At the public mention of his parents, Jamie’s throat went dry, a large lump forming while tears pricked his eyes. He took a large gulp of whisky ahead of the toast, swallowing hard.

“We raise a glass to you, lad, and to our fair Jenny. Ceud mile fàilte agus slàinte mhór!” Hands raised glasses filled with rich amber whisky aloft, mouths forming a chorus of “Slàinte mhath, Slàinte mhór!”

\--------

Jamie waited quite patiently in the bar, still nursing the fair sized dram of an 18 year old Laphroaig, chatting with the men between stories and checking his phone each time Ian stepped away to order more drinks or relieve himself. All had gone well back home, according to Mrs. Fitz. Nothing had burned down, service had gone smoothly, and Fergus had been dropped off at Elise’s house on time and without issue.

The clock on the wall chimed as time fell away around them. Jamie’s nerves increased with each minute passing. Without realising he began rubbing the scarring on the palm of his hand in circular motions in a nervous twitch. If he missed the woman he wouldn’t have another opportunity to speak with her, and he needed to mention the dessert.

Another sip of whisky, another look at the clock. And again, and once more for luck.

He had gotten caught up sending a last-minute goodnight message to Fergus when he saw the flash of brown hair strolling past the entrance to the bar.

Jamie stood quickly, shoving his phone unceremoniously into his back pocket and rushed down into the hallway, shouting clumsily down the corridor, “Are you Claire?”

The woman stopped in her tracks, turning to him with her brow creased in curious confusion. “Yes – sorry who are…?” Her question dropped off as Jamie came to a stop next to her.

His entire body lit with burning heat as he took in her appearance. Eyes a hickory colour, as rich as the soil of the earth, and her hair a mahogany brown, reflecting red in the warm light of the bar. Her face was porcelain, marred so slightly by the same dark circles held under his own eyes from tireless hours in the kitchen. A sugary sweet haze of vanilla and scorched caramel subtly emanated from her, boldly tempting Jamie to step closer to her body. She cooked like the devil and looked like an angel sent from the almighty. For once in his life, Jamie Fraser was speechless.

Claire looked at him expectantly, nodding her head in an effort for him to continue with what he wanted to say.

“Oh!” He announced abruptly, realizing with embarrassment that he had completely forgotten himself. “I ate here tonight and I wanted to speak to ye. About the Hazelnut dessert? Wi’ the brandy poached pears?”

“Oh! Yes one of the girls mentioned you.” She smiled, and Jamie noticed her eyebrows raised and her cheeks dimpled as she did so. “Yes, I’m aware of the dish. What was it you wanted to say?”

“It was delicious, really absolutely beautiful. The crumb of the cake was just sublime and the slices of pear– I’d love to know how you did it.“ He paused for a moment, just taking a breath as Claire interrupted him.

“Well thank you, that’s kind of you to say, but professional chefs don’t share secrets.”

“Oh, I know but - it’s just that it wasn’t perfect. You’re missing something.” The words tumbled out of his mouth without grace or style, leaving Jamie feeling almost foolish.

“Really? And what, may I ask, do you think I’m missing?” Her voice raised an octave, her cheeks burning with a sudden flash of fury. Jamie immediately realized how badly his comment had come across, and while he wanted to apologise, he thought it was helpful criticism.

“I dinna mean to be rude - really. It needs more sugar - the cake I mean. Maybe a tablespoon or so. That’s the problem wi’ it.” Jamie stood attempting to smile encouragingly, but the flush that was growing across Claire’s fair neck and face spoke volumes.

“Well –” She paused, clearly lost for words. “Who exactly are you to collar me with criticism?”

“James Fraser – Jamie. I work at Broch Morda in Glasgow, ye heard of it?”

“No, can’t say I have.” She replied sarcastically.

“If ye let me see your recipe, I could show you where to amend it.”

Jamie went to speak again but Claire held up her hand, silencing him swiftly. “I can’t believe your cheek! You’ve just waltzed in here to compliment me, apparently, then you basically tell me my cooking isn’t good enough?! What’s wrong with you?!”

“It wasna like that! It’ll work I swear!” Jamie fumbled for words to break the tension he had accidentally created. “I’m just trying to help!”

“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Fraser, but I think I’ll be going now. Enjoy your evening.” She brushed past him in a flurry, leaving Jamie contemplating what on earth had just happened in those five minutes. He hadn’t intended to insult her, he thought. All he’d meant to do was offer a helpful suggestion!

Jamie wandered back into the bar in a half daze, sitting down with the rest of the now rather inebriated members of his family.

Ian lent over to him, and Jamie looked at him square. “Ye alright wean?” His breath reeked of whisky making Jamie lean back and wince. He thought for a moment about his choice of words before describing the spectacle he had just been part of in a single sentence.

“I think I just met a culinary goddess.”

Ian’s eyebrow arched, blinking his eyes in an owl-like manner to focus his dizzied eyes on his friend. “And?” He held the a, teasingly shifting his eyebrows suggestively.

“I think I really pissed her off.” Jamie took Ian’s glass of whisky from his hand and downed it in one large gulp, accompanied by the raucous laughter of his inebriated best friend. 

\---------------------------

Translations:

Ceud mile fàilte agus slàinte mhór! - A hundred thousand welcomes and great health.  
Slàinte mhath, slàinte mhór! - Good health, great health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you enjoyed the second chapter of Just Desserts. Thanks for taking the time to read and I hope it has left you hungry for more... Apologies for the slight delay in posting this one - editing it got in the way! Updates still scheduled for every Sunday.
> 
> Thank you's to my editors for their continued hard work - you're both absolute wonders. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is purely of my own creation, Outlander isn’t mine, nor or are Claire and Jamie. If they were that 20 year gap wouldn’t have happened.


	3. Ashton Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire is a woman with a plan as she makes a visit to a certain restaurant on Ashton Lane...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, chapter three! Thank you all for your beautiful comments, for the kudos and the bookmarks. Apologies that it's a day late, I had a nightmare with formatting it! Hope you all enjoy, bon appetit!

Claire returned home that evening, mind still contemplating the comments Jamie had made. Removing her shoes by the door and turning on the lights in the apartment, she muttered away to herself, cursing his very being.

“Who does he think he is? Cheeky git.” She hung up her coat and headed straight into the darkness of the kitchen. Claire pushed a switch angrily and the kitchen lit, the mirrored black cabinets, dark marble surfaces, and what she deemed her ‘necessary torture devices’ for home cooking all coming to life before her.

“‘Needs more sugar’… Bloody rude!” She plucked out a glass from the racking above her head and poured out the remaining Shiraz from the evening prior. Her beloved grey couch sat calling her name, but she knew if she even entertained the idea of sitting on it and covering herself with a blanket, she’d be out cold and wake up with a crick in her neck in the morning.

She drained the glass, placing it beside the sink and shuffled off to bed. Her last thought would permeate her dreams for the evening and follow her like a dark cloud into the kitchen following morning. “Arse with it. I’ll prove him wrong. A bit of bloody sugar won’t make any difference.”

———-

Resolute in her task for the morning, Claire arrived to prepare for service in the restaurant. A task list sat in front of her, noting down her plates and the necessary orders in which to begin.

For the illustrious dessert in question, ice-cream would need to be prepared, the cakes prepped and the pears peeled and submerged into poaching liquid. She would set aside a small amount of cake batter to try out this suggestion of Frasers’ to satisfy the still embers of fury in her chest.

Each element required precise measurement and careful construction for the final plate. She remembered an instructors voice shouting above the noise of stand mixers in a classroom, “Patisserie is an exact science! Too much or too little and you’re in big trouble!”

She began with her ice cream, mixing the cream and sugar together in a saucepan with milk, the sweet creaminess permeating the air around her until the sugar had dissolved. Stirring in a caramel she had a junior commis finish preparing for her, she folded it into the bubbling mixture, sprinkling in a pinch of coarse sea salt rough against her fingertips. Into the freezer it would go, and on she would continue.

The cake batter taunted her as she made it, the muscovado reminding her of the grin on Fraser's’ face as she tipped in the extra teaspoon into the small ramekin she would make for herself. Chopping the hazelnuts had been an exercise in releasing pent up aggression, leaving indentations from the top of the knife in her soft palms. She placed the larger cake and her ramekin into the oven for the thirty minutes, each moment passing in an almost deliberate slowness. In the meantime, she had poached the pears in a concoction of water, sugar and cinnamon, swirling the saucepan as the syrup thickened to a luscious golden colour. The muscovado cake emerged from the oven glistening with a bubbling, stickiness glistening on top.

Claire had waited ten more minutes before finally plating her dish with a precise hand. Each element cut and placed appropriately, so each bite would be replicated no matter who the plate reached. She was proud of her work as she placed a drizzle of the poaching liquid around the dish.

With a careful hand she dipped the spoon into the dessert, making sure to have a small taste of all of the components on the plate. Claire raised it to her mouth, took the bite and immediately regretted the moment she had entertained a conversation with Jamie Fraser.

It was perfect. Seven months of making this dessert, seven months of a niggling feeling that told her something was missing, and in he strides with his broad shoulders, blue eyes, and charming smile and just fixes it! Claire felt herself holding back a frustrated scream, her shoulders stiffening and chest getting tight. She was annoyed, though perhaps more than that, she was impressed. Looking back at the dessert, the small voice of self doubt crept back, spinning itself a tangled web of insecurity. He had known, he’d just…

Claire put down the spoon and shook herself from the feeling. She was a damned good pastry chef and letting the voice of doubt in her own mind win was as good as letting all of the voices she’d heard over the years win. The voices that had criticised and demeaned her, left her crying in her apartment in her early twenties, wanting to throw her books at the wall and call off her education. No. She had to remember what Vianne told her all of those years ago.

“My Chef whites are my armour - my protection in battle. People will fight you for your place in this business. They criticize you for your work and you will doubt yourself, cherie. Do not let those people win. Be prepared to fight back. Be your best self, Claire. Tell yourself everyday ‘I will be the best in my kitchen and I will prevail.’”

Claire looked down at the dessert once more, then stood back up, straight backed.

“If he thinks he can walk into my kitchen and criticise me, then bollocks to him.” She muttered aloud, making for the telephone hanging on the kitchen wall. Picking up the receiver, she punched in the numbers for his office, waiting while the phone rang out until a charming well-spoken English voice answered on the end of the line.

“Hello Frank, I’m sorry to bother you but I wondered if you wanted to get supper tonight together?” She paused while he enthusiastically answered. “Wonderful! I’ve heard the most wonderful things about a little place called Broch Morda…”

———

Even though he had arrived home nursing a rather uncomfortable hangover at midday, Jamie stood, eyes rimmed dark and hair dishevelled in the kitchen reading over an ingredient list. Murtagh had reluctantly decided to come back to the restaurant with him for the evening service.

“Ye ken? I mean I should ha’ just said it was delicious and left it alone!” Jamie had resolutely felt awash with guilt since the evening before. He couldn’t stop replaying the look on her beautiful face in his mind. She had created something quite perfect and in he had walked, as she said, criticizing her out of nowhere.

“Jamie lad, just go back! I canna say more!” Murtagh had mumbled this same line several times at him since Jamie had begun to regale him with the story of how he had met Claire and gone from praising her to the heavens, to bringing her crashing down and filling her with a blind fury. “I dinna ken what it is ye want me to say!”

Jamie looked up from the menu at him, shrugging his shoulders and throwing a hand up in the air. “An’ ye think I ken?!”

A laugh cut through the space and Jamie turned to see Fergus standing by his ‘Honorary Commis’ station near the entryway.

“Ooh Claire, ma Cherie! Forgive me!” Jamie’s chest shook with a laugh and blatant embarrassment. “Ooh Claire, cook for me again! Let us run into the sunset together!” Fergus’ voice cracked under the weight of his own laughter, his Parisian accent deepening as he tried desperately to finish his sentence before peppering it with kissing noises.

Jamie picked up a towel from the cold bench, scrunching the fabric beneath his fingers and threw it toward his ward in a sweeping movement. “You’ll no be laughing wi’ my size twelves up yer arse ye wee gomerel!”

“Well at least Jenny’ll be pleased.”

At the mention of his sister’s name Jamie looked at Murtagh curiously, wondering why his lamenting his insulting Claire would please his sister?

“I’ll be pleased about what?”

Jamie looked up to see his sister entering the kitchen holding Fergus’ bag and coat in her hand. He looked over at the clock and realised how late it had suddenly gotten, and how unhappy Elise would be with him for having Fergus in the restaurant so late.

“Fergus, we need to get you back to Elise’s. Ye should’ve been back an hour ago. If I’ve forgotten anything ye’ll have to go grab it lad.” Her voice cut like a knife at Jamie, reminding him of the precarious nature of forgetting to take Fergus back to his fosterer.

Jamie looked over to Fergus, nodding his head. “Go on lad, quick about it.”

Fergus left the room, leaving Jamie knowing his sister would imminently launch into a discussion as to how irresponsible he had been with both her husband to be and with Fergus.

“Ye realise, do ye not brother, that if ye keep taking him back so late they won’t let ye move forward wi’ the adoption? Better yet, taking care of the lad wi’ a hangover in a bloody kitchen? Are ye mad?!”

In moments like this, Jamie hated his sister and the fact she sounded as much like their mother as she did. He was aware, of course he was. There wasn’t a speck of his being that wanted to risk losing Fergus, and the suggestion wore him out. Murtagh, of course, knew how heavily the fear sat in his chest, that he didn’t miss the drop off times purposefully and whenever the social workers looked at him with the same expression Jenny gave him now it felt as though a hot poker was being stuck into his stomach.

“Aye Jenny – he kens. I dinna think here is the right place.” Murtagh’s voice broke through the tension that had set over the kitchen, distracting several of the staff. Out of the corner of his eye Jamie could see Murtagh twitch his head at the staff who were neglecting their duties. “Anyway, how is Ian?”

“He’s nursing a broken heid apparently. Thinks it’ll fall off his shoulders. I’ve left him in the car wi’ wee Jamie for the minute.”

Jamie laughed despite the unsettled feeling his sister had given him. “Aye weel that’ll teach him to drink a bottle of Laphroaig by himself.”

“And what, brother, were you doing while he did that? I thought ye were keeping an eye on him?” Jenny looked at him with the same impatient look their mother gave him.

“He was wi’ a lass.”

Jamie felt his heart fall hard into his stomach and his pulse drop. He looked over at his godfather with eyes as wide as saucers, “No I wasne.”

Jamie watched the cool mask his sister usually wore fall and shatter, leaving behind an expression that said it all. Her dark eyebrows jumped up, eyes as wide as his own and a grin that spoke only of trouble and cross questioning. He could feel her almost twitching with excitement, body thrumming with hope for the end of his ‘single streak’.

“Who is she? Is she coming in? What’s she like? Christ, Jamie are ye bringing her to the wedding?!”

Jamie swallowed hard. He had to stop her before she launched into a whole discussion of who Claire was and if he saw marriage on the cards for the two of them.

“I’ve ne got a lass! I met one – Jenny for God’s sake stop grinning like that will ye?! She’s the Patissier at Gleneagles – and anyway I pissed her off so I doubt she’d look twice at me now.”

Murtagh’s gruff voice interrupted, his moustache twitching inanimately with each word. “Jamie lad I wouldne be so sure.”

Jamie took a heavy breath, filling his lungs and exhaling hard. Of all the people he didn’t expect his godfather to join in with his sister in her overly excited nonsense.

“Ye didn’t see her face, man. God it was shameful the way I spoke.” He looked down to his hands, rubbing the scarring on the palm of his hand in circular motions once again.

“Weel,” Murtagh said confidently, “I can see her right now and she doesne look too pissed off.”

Jamie felt the entire world go entirely off kilter. Turning sharply on the spot his entire body lit with shock. The same hair, the same coat going past the square window of the kitchen door toward the back of the room. He darted forward, placing a hand on the wooden door, the paint rough against his fingertips. His heart thrummed in his chest, his breaths suddenly becoming harder to take.

“Christ she’s here.”

——////—–

Glasgow had always held a level of charm for Claire that no other city had, with its vast Victorian architecture, bohemian and intelligent community, and it’s lush green parks, she hadn’t ever not felt at home there. 

The restaurant sat in the West End of Glasgow, nestled in the line up of establishments on Ashton Lane. A hidden backstreet, lined with cobbles and a sheet of twinkling lights that hung overhead, bathing those below in golden light. It was a paradise of eateries, of drinking and being merry. Seats littered the outside of each place, placed around tables with at least two ashtrays sitting atop of them, the bitter scent of long smoked cigarettes lingering in the air. Claire wandered up the street, smiling at the hideaway bohemian treasure. At the bottom of the street Claire spotted the Grosvenor cinema, with its white façade and neon sign hung from the wall. She’d been on a date there once she remembered. Though she didn’t remember which movie, she’d been far too invested in the stranger sitting next to her and his wandering hands.

Broch Morda sat almost dead center in the middle of the street, its name standing out in elegant silver letters against a black backdrop. The restaurant stood lit by small twinkling spotlights, the restaurant name pronunciation broken down below it on the door-frame for the non-Gaelic speakers. Claire though it charming, making her smile warmly. 

“Claire are we going to stand outside all evening or actually go into the building?” Frank’s voice brought her out of her reverie abruptly. She looked over to him, his expression and general demeanor looking rather impatient with her.

“Oh, yes. Of course, darling.” She stepped forward toward him, taking a deep breath to steady herself before crossing the threshold of the restaurant.

Inside, Claire stood entirely taken aback by the sight before her. It was beautiful, brilliant, bohemian and nothing like she had expected. Overhead a skylight ran the length of the building, the panes of glass frosted and edged with black timbers, letting in the light of the moon and the neon of the buildings around her. A small mezzanine stood overhead, holding a dozen tables filled with chattering guests, gleaming wine glasses and white porcelain plates. Someone had laced hundreds of lights through the same black timber railing, creating a patchwork of stars overhead.

Everyone, she noticed, was happy. The swirling scents of butter, garlic, and sugar lingering in the air like a soft kiss from creamy desserts were enchanting.  
Frank stood ahead of her, speaking with the maitre d’. His voice disrupted her thoughts again as he directed her toward a table toward the back of the room. Claire walked, taking in the room around her, watching the faces of the diners eating and drinking happily. Frank held out his hands for her coat and Claire shrugged out of it almost awkwardly, the heat that had kept her snug as they travelled escaping, leaving her with a tickling chill.

As they were properly seated and given menus to peruse, Claire’s eyes twitched to the kitchen. Was he in there, she wondered. Did he see her come in? She was half pleased that Frank had listened when she had asked him to seat them toward the back of the room. More than likely he would have suspected some attempt at being romantic. In fact, she had hoped to avoid potentially catching the eye of the cocky Fraser git.

She looked down at the a la carte menu, appraising each dish offered on the Broch Morda menu. Claire wanted to find fault tonight. She wanted to be able to turn up at his kitchen doors and say “Look! I’ve found something you can improve too, you obnoxious arse!” It was petty, she knew. Seeking to pull down one’s contemporaries was nothing short of school like behaviour, but frankly, she didn’t care. 

When the server had arrived, she had constructed herself a menu she would have been proud to take home to Gleneagles;

Saute Foie Gras, Poached Rhubard, Confit Duck Leg and Marzipan Crumb  
Wild Halibut, Roast Langoustine, Squid Farfalle, Cauliflower Puree  
Valrhona Chocolate Tart 2001, Praline and White Chocolate

Frank had ordered the scallops to start, the pork and for dessert the Perthshire strawberries, which Claire knew teamed with the basil cake, lemon mousse, and strawberry sorbet would be refreshing, sweet and decadent if paired correctly.

Drinks arrived in stout wine glasses swirled with gold, and their conversation led to work as usual. He regaled her with the work at Glasgow University he was undertaking for their museum studies classes. He spoke with such enthusiasm, Claire thought, it was a shame he showed little when she spoke about her own work. He wasn’t a particularly bad person to have a conversation with, he just at times forgot that a world outside the past existed. He told her about a journal piece he was starting with a fellow at the university, she told him about the intern caught stealing gold leaf and edible dusting powders. Frank smiled at her with the same pleasant grin he gave his students, and Claire couldn’t help but think he looked almost tired of the evening before it had even begun.

Before she had the opportunity to attempt to liven the conversation, their starters arrived. Claire gasped a little as the plate was sat down before her. The plate, similarly edged in gold, displayed a beautifully thought-out construction. The vibrant pink of the poached rhubarb sat beneath sliced sautéed foie gras, the edges of which were deliciously charred. The duck leg was placed on top, balanced perfectly and dashed with the marzipan crumb that Claire was sure would add to the succulent flesh. She took her knife and fork into hand, and with a delighted eagerness, she sliced at the duck, chopped off a piece of the foie gras and poached rhubarb and took the bite. She sighed, closing her eyes briefly at the taste. The foie gras melted, the rhubarb cutting beautifully through the buttery texture and the duck, oh it was fatty, tender, juicy, and cooked to a perfect pink. The smell of seared butter filled her nose and Claire had a great need for more of the stringy rhubarb alone.

Claire’s conversation entirely dried up, finding herself entirely too involved in the plate before her. She barely paused to take a breath before finishing it. Frank looked at her rather aghast, “You know it’s not going to go anywhere.”

She placed down her fork and took a sip of wine, enjoying the remaining taste lingering in her mouth. “It was rather perfect, I couldn’t possibly help myself.”

The Scottish beef arrived after a respectable amount of time, accompanied by the short rib, aubergine and bone marrow fondant. Ribbons of aubergine sat beneath a perfectly medium rare piece of beef, the bone marrow crust a deepened delicious golden brown and ebony char of the hay cooked short rib stood against the porcelain, dripping with a rendered marrow reduction. The presentation alone was outstanding, her eyes widening with greedy delight. Frank had gone ahead and begun eating, not taking in the careful work clearly done by the Sous chef. Once more, she took a forkful and once more, her mouth watered with an overwhelming sense of sheer enjoyment. The last time she had a dining experience like this she had cried, she remembered.

Though she had intended to have Jamie eat his own words, she thought there would be more chance of her eating her own if the dessert was as good as her starter and main had been. A pause became a slight wait as their desserts were prepared in the kitchen. Perhaps he was purposefully trying to prove something to her in her waiting, Claire thought sipping her glass of wine, the sharpness of the grape catching the back of her throat and filling her nose with the overwhelming memory of a winery she had visited years ago.

“Are you enjoying your food, Frank?” She hoped he was, she hoped that her glass face hadn’t betrayed her and somehow he had figured out the reasoning behind their date. 

“Yes, quite enjoying it. Though that damned chef wants to hurry himself up.” Frank took another sip of his own wine, and Claire watched as his eyes twitched expectantly at his phone.

—–////—–

Jamie had waited by the door, waiting for the opportune moment to take the desserts Claire and the fella with her had ordered. He pushed open the door with his hip, holding the bowls in his hand and balanced on his forearm. He wove in and out of the tables, smiling at the odd guest that caught his eye as he went past.

“Valrhona chocolate tart for the lass and the Perthshire strawberries and basil for the gent.”

Jamie watched her entire body go rigid as he spoke, refusing to look up at him. Frank’s phone rang and with immediate urgency he half-heartedly excused himself with little consideration for his guest. 

Claire stared at the plate, eyes focused exactly on the chocolate curls springing wildly from the chocolate tart. She cursed herself for the idea of coming to the restaurant and wished quite urgently that the floor would swallow her whole. Jamie leant down over her directly hovering above her ear and she waited with an awkward, nervous anticipation.

“Thought I hadn’t spotted ye there, Sassenach?”

“Fuck.” She stated rather loudly, followed by a hearty chuckle from Jamie. She had been caught red handed with no means of escaping the net.

The awkwardness of the situation was suddenly cut by the immediate arrival of Frank who looked positively flustered, face flushed red. “Claire I’m sorry but I’ve got to leave - an alarm has gone off in the department…”

“Oh.” Claire looked at him disheartened. “If you have to…”

“You’ll be okay to get back? I can call you a taxi -”

“No, it’s fine! Don’t worry I’m a big girl. Give me a call tomorrow okay?” She looked up at him, feeling the blush rising up her neck and her ears burning with the horrid embarrassment at being left alone.

“If I’m not too busy.” He smiled, kissed her cheek and left without a second look back.

The exchange left Jamie filled with a potent mixture of anger and sympathy. Claire tried to not let her disappointment show at Frank leaving her behind at Broch Morda.

She looked up toward Jamie, his figure looming over her like a shadow. “He’s very busy. He sometimes –” Claire fumbled with her words, toying with the corner of the napkin on her lap. Jamie kneeled to her level, his eyes soft with compassion and reached out a hand to place on top of hers.

“It’s okay. Don’t feel like you need to explain yerself. No’ to the likes of me.” As Jamie rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand, an inexplicably warm feeling flooded through his body and to his chest. It warmed his lungs, his heart, his spine - beating around his body like a drum beat.

“Thank you, Jamie.” Claire answered quietly, her eyes on their touching hands.

“If you wouldn’t mind me filling in as your date for the remainder of the evening, I’ll bring you some whisky and you can try that chocolate tart I ken yer dying to. We can talk? If you’d like to that is.”

Claire laughed, it’s sound small and sweet, filled with a thankfulness at his brushing over the horrid awkwardness that had fallen over her table. “It would be my pleasure.”

Jamie stood and smiled down at her and held up his right hand, “Two minutes, promise.” and wandered back into the kitchen leaving Claire alone. Her body was warmed to the core, and the nerves of her left hand tingled from the calloused palm that had held it.

—– ///// —–

Claire, still mildly mortified with embarrassment sat waiting for Jamie nursing a large glass of whisky. The server had, with a smirk on his face, delivered the message that “Chef Fraser will be with you shortly. He said to tell you that he’s just tidying up and making sure there aren’t any more spies lurking in his kitchen.” He had stifled a giggle upon his leaving. The feeling of wanting the floor to open beneath her feet and swallow her whole returned with a renewed vengeance. She tipped the glass toward her mouth again and took another large mouthful, muttering “Jesus H Roosevelt Christ” after she had swallowed the nectar.

The dessert sat beside her looking as beautiful as it had when it arrived. With an eagerness she picked up the small silver spoon and broke the dark cacao crust of the tart, it crumbling slightly. A caramel like chocolate oozed from the centre, dark and heavenly, clearly having warmed slightly from the heat of the room. The shards of hazelnut praline sat in the top of the tart, pearls of white chocolate decorating the plate and the smallest edible blue flowers sitting prettily around it. Claire smiled slightly, realizing the resemblance to ‘forget me not’ flowers, the irony of their meaning not lost in the mele of the evening. She hit the praline shards with her spoon, cracking them so as they shattered, making a tinkling noise as the pieces hit the porcelain. Claire took up a spoonful, and within the instant it touched her tongue her eyes sprung with tears. Bitterness swirled with sweetness, the mingling of textures and soft notes took her breath away, convincing her that while their introduction had been unpleasant, their future could be particularly sweet.

—-/////—

Jamie had come out to meet her five minutes later, and it came to Claire’s attention how large he really was. He must be at least 6 feet 2, at least. With a flaming halo of copper hair and a strong jaw covered with a coarse stubble, Jamie seemed happy to see her. Despite herself, the curses she had cast on him earlier, she was pleased to be in his company again.

They had been sitting contemplating what to say to one another before Claire had finally decided enough was enough, and she would just launch into the reason she had come to the restaurant.

“I’ve a proposition for you.”

“Last time someone said that I ended up running down the street in my boxers at two in the morning.” Jamie cocked his eyebrow, smiling mischievously.

Claire looked at him and spoke with a little distaste at his demeanour. “Be serious, Fraser. It’ll be worth your while.”

“It’s like I’m having flashbacks!” He clutched at his chest, laughing heartily which left Claire with an underlying unease at his inability to take her seriously. She shook her head and reached behind her for her coat and to the floor for her purse.

“This was a mistake.” She stood abruptly, the chair emitting a piercing screech as it scraped the floor. “I shouldn’t have bothered.”

Jamie immediately ceased laughing, the familiar guilty weight settling back in only heavier and heartier than it had been earlier. He rose to his feet quickly, putting a hand onto her shirt, the silk soft beneath his fingertips.

“No, Claire. Please don’t. I just – please sit. I’ll listen, please.”

She eyed him cautiously, watching his shoulders slump with relief as she put down her coat again.

“You have to listen to me, no jokes. I really – I just need you to listen.” He nodded, looking at her with intent.

She began tentatively, “Have you ever heard of the World Chocolatier Championship?” He nodded again, his brows twitching. “I want to compete in it.”

Jamie considered what she had said, wondering why she had felt it necessary to come all the way to Broch Morda to tell him. “Well, I mean good luck with it. I dinna ken how I fig-“ He stopped mid sentence as the metaphoric light bulb went off in his head, swearing unintelligibly under his breath. “You want me to partner with you. But I – I was rude and – Why?”

Claire looked down at the whisky glass in her hand, trying to figure out how she might explain that, in a fit of rage, she had in fact tried the extra sugar in the muscovado cake.

“You tried the extra sugar, didn’t you?” His voice was filled with a surprised curiosity.

“Okay smartarse - yes. I’ll hold my hands up and say you were right.” Claire placed her glass onto the table with a little too much force than she had wanted to. “Just goes to prove you think you’re good enough and it turns out you’re missing the obvious.” 

“Ye canna be serious! Yer damn brilliant woman! Hell if ye think I’m good enough to partner wi’ ye then I canna argue.” Jamie could barely believe the madness of the woman sitting opposite him. His mind whirred as he tried to process the situation.

It was Claire’s turn to reply with surprise, feeling entirely taken aback by the surety in his assertion. She hadn’t expected this reaction from him, she had expected him to gloat and told him as such. When he had questioned her, leaning forward as if his being closer to her might help him understand what she meant a little more, she had replied with a sentence that had shocked him.   
“Being right? Food men gloat when they’re right. Especially toward female chefs.”

“No! Never! I don’t condone that type of behaviour, certainly not toward you or any other female chefs. I run an equal kitchen and if you’re not going to adhere to those rules then you’re out on your arse.” Jamie spoke with absolute conviction. He was all too aware of the attitudes of certain members of the food world. The stories regaled by his staff made him blanche in horror. “In fact, I owe you an enormous apology for the way I spoke to you last night. I was insulting in the least, unprofessional, inappropriate and ungentlemanly. If my mother had heard that she’d have smacked me for it.”

A wave of gratitude swept over Claire and without a second thought she mirrored his earlier action and reached out across the table to touch his left hand and lay her fingers on top of his. Voice thick with sincerity, she thanked him quietly and politely. He smiled, turning his hand up toward hers and grasping her fingers beneath his.

A feeling of immediate comfort washed over Claire, as though the fear had fallen away like smoke dissipating through a room. Her hand warmed under his touch, under the complex simplicity of his reassurance. She wondered if she had felt the same peace, the same level of understanding and surety in Frank.

Jamie broke the silence at long last. “I should’ve apologised the minute I said it. I ask yer forgiveness for it.”

Claire scrunched her nose slightly, dismissing his guilt with a warm smile. “Really, you said sorry and that’s more than a lot of food men have ever said to me.”

A moment passed between the two of them. They sat, a hand holding the other, waiting on the words to follow. They could have been anyone in that moment, any two strangers sitting late in a restaurant. Friends, lovers, enemies… Partners, perhaps.

Claire moved her hand first, immediately noticing that the feeling had fallen away and in a sudden rash moment of thought she wanted to take hold of his hand again. She picked up the crystal glass again and finished the remainder of the whisky, the last of the dram tickling the back of her throat with caramel and vanilla.

“The competition - are ye sure? I mean do ye think we’d have a real shot at it?” The hope in his voice was evident to be sure. Jamie wanted to invest the time in her, in the opportunity to prove himself and take a step closer to Lallybroch. He watched her consider her words for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip.

“In all honesty? We could win it. Both of us have eaten the others’ plates, we know we’re both damn good and if we practice for the next few weeks, get to know one another then why the hell shouldn’t we have as much of a chance as everyone else?” Claire shrugged her shoulders, a gleaming optimism in her eyes.

Considering his own words too, his cheeks twinging slightly in a small smirk. He swallowed and spoke, “You make a damn convincing case - you’re in the wrong profession.”

They both grinned at one another, letting out a spontaneous snicker of laughter. Considering all options remaining, Jamie knew this wasn’t an opportunity to miss out on. He held out his hand to shake hers across the table, a beaming smile gracing her face as she firmly shook his hand in a solemn, excited agreement.

“Yer on, Beauchamp.”


	4. 'The Kiltmakers'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murtagh and Jamie sit waiting for Ian during their final kilt fitting for Jenny and Ian's wedding...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to all for the delay in getting the next chapter of the baking AU sorted. I've been snowed under with my job and I haven't had the time to sit down and write a chapter. HOWEVER. I wanted to get something posted before the next chapter appears to make up for the delay (IT IS COMING. I PROMISE. MAYBE EVEN TWO CHAPTERS?). 
> 
> So, with my love, please have this little ficlet/drabble (?) starring Murtagh and Jamie. Hopefully you all like it, it’s just a little something to hopefully tide you over for a little longer. 
> 
> Thanks - S x

“Jamie lad will ye get off yer phone!”

Murtagh sat with an indignant expression on his face, annoyed at his nephew’s ignorance. They were in Edinburgh, specifically Stewart Christie & Co. for their final kilt fittings for Jenny and Ian’s wedding. It had been a relatively easy day, one of the easiest in the whole madness of preparing for the nuptials. All of the groomsmen had arrived together, each taken into the fitting area for their last alterations. Most of the men had left already to start the drive while it was still light. Jamie and Murtagh had stayed behind, waiting on a large Chesterfield sofa for Ian to finish his fitting before making the drive back.

“Sorry! I was just replying to something!”

Murtagh rubbed his temples, “Ye keep sayin’ that lad – I’ll take the damn thing off ye in a second!”

Jamie put his phone back into his jacket pocket, staring at his godfather with a similarly irritated look. “Ye are beginning to sound exactly like Jenny an’ Ian! It was important! I couldn’t ignore her!”

The older Scot cocked a bushy eyebrow and grinned beneath his dark, wiry beard. “Ah – the lass. Gettin’ on well the two o’ ye?”

Jamie felt himself blushing, something he hadn’t done since he was fifteen and Murtagh and his Da had caught him kissing a girl in the Lallybroch stables. “I – Yes.”

“An’ what was so important that she just had to tell ye and ye just had to reply?”

“She was asking if the fitting was going well and to send a picture…” Jamie mumbled, looking down at his hands and rubbing his scarred palm in a vain attempt at hiding his burning face. He’d obliged, of course, sending her a full length picture of him proudly standing in his full wedding suit. He wanted to know what she’d thought, hoping that she might entertain the idea of him looking handsome.

Murtagh muffled what Jamie assumed was a laugh, clapping Jamie on the arm with a wide hand. A small vibrating noise emanated from Jamie’s pocket once more, followed by a brief chirping noise. Jamie’s eyes flicked down toward it. With a flick of his wrist and a wave of his hand, he invited Jamie to continue ignoring him for the sake of the lass. Without even a further moment’s delay, Jamie reached into the pocket and sat smirking at what was clearly Claire’s reply before swiftly tapping away at the screen. 

“Lad,” Murtagh fondly muttered, “ye are as bad as yer Da was.”

He watched him for a second before standing to check on Ian, leaving Jamie in a world that held only him and Claire.


	5. Rules and Regulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie and Claire meet again to discuss the rules and regulations of the competition - all the while noticing some new things about one another...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT’S THIS? A NEW CHAPTER?! OF THE BAKING AU?! - Yes those are pigs flying outside your window.
> 
> Right, I’ll keep it short and sweet I promise! Thank you all for being so patient and so kind during the wait for this chapter! I've been horrendously busy with work so I hope this makes up for the delay. So do settle in, get yourselves a cup of tea and my darlings, Bon appetit! 
> 
> (Oh and spot a reference to an interview done by the show leads...)

Just Desserts  
Chapter Four - ‘Rules and Regulations’

\-------

From: Jamie Fraser  
To: Claire Beauchamp  
Are you nearly here woman?! - J

From: Claire Beauchamp  
To: Jamie Fraser  
Yes! I’ll be there soon - I’ve got to walk from the station remember?

From: Jamie Fraser  
To: Claire Beauchamp  
Do ye want me to meet you? It’ll only take a minute to grab the car and drive up to Hillhead. It’s fair late and I’d hate to think that anything could happen. - J

From: Claire Beauchamp  
To: Jamie Fraser  
It’ll take you longer to do that than me walking to you. I’ll be fine, Jamie - It’s well lit. Thank you though. Be with you soon. x

Jamie stared at his phone screen at the small black ‘x’ that sat at the end of the message. She hadn’t ever done that. Not in the week since their meeting had Claire ever signed off a message she had sent to him. It was foolish, Jamie knew that, probably a force of habit but he couldn’t stop himself from staring at it.

They hadn’t stopped talking for the past week. From morning until night, messages had flown between the two of them covering everything from their next meeting to the state of the economy. Messages consisting of everything and anything, dashes of conversation as opposed to anything in any particular detail. Their phones had lit up and fingers itched to check each message, shy smiles passing as they tapped at screens. On either side, the others families and friends had noticed. Frank watched on uncomfortably as she typed away; smirking at the messages, stifling a giggle or frowning, her brows knitting as she furiously replied. He questioned her as to why she felt it necessary to continue discussing work matters at home, and stated as a matter of fact that she had an inability to draw a line between personal and professional. Claire had promptly ignored him, commenting only that some needed to practice what they preached. Back at Broch Mordha, Murtagh watched Jamie’s eyes light up with each passing hour, a bashful grin hidden behind the glow of his screen.

The niggling feeling that became more and more prevalent with each message intensified, and Jamie felt his heart flutter for a moment as he typed his reply.

From: Jamie Fraser  
To: Claire Beauchamp  
As long as you’re sure. Just call if you need me - J x

He placed his phone back onto the counter and returned to the pile of papers that lay littered before him. Page upon page of competition rules, regulations and the application brief. With tired eyes he’d read the document after his shift the night before, in a hope to ease the overwhelming sense of being completely out of his depth. His fears however had not been eased. The more he read, the more he worried. As Jamie’s eyes had finally fallen on the award for overall winner, he’d felt his heart plummet to the floor and had sworn colourfully out loud.

“The first prize for the winning World Chocolatier Championship Competition team will be £500’000 and a feature in Dessert Professional.”

“No chance in hell.” He’d said aloud. “None.”

He kept reading then flicking back to the award breakdown. If they actually ended up winning this competition, the benefits not only to his professional career but to his personal life would be huge. Jamie ran a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp. This would change everything, open up opportunities that felt a decade away. His mind had begun to run away with itself; dreaming up a proper honeymoon for Jenny and Ian, the exact one she’d longingly researched; a big family holiday; a new car; treats for wee Jamie and his own lad…. As he’d dreamt however, reality had come rushing back in again and Jamie knew that if he did win, the money would not be endless. He would make good on some of the promises but he had to invest in the long term for his family. With his half it would be enough to continue restoring the house and to start investing in the licenses and permits for his own restaurant.

His mind had fallen to Claire when he’d thought of the restaurant. The money would do so much for her, give her the professional opportunities he knew she dreamed of. He smiled, glancing at his phone. Perhaps she might even join his kitchen for a while – if he could convince her. He’d fallen asleep that night dreaming of Lallybroch, and Claire standing in the kitchen. 

Jamie looked down at his phone once more and turned it back on, feeling a pang of disappointment at no new message. As if the devil himself had been watching, Claire appeared at the kitchen door not a moment later, stepping inside into the warmth of the building.

“Jesus H Roosevelt Christ it’s cold out there!” She spoke from beneath a large grey woollen scarf, eyes watering and face tinged red from the sharp coldness of the wind.

Jamie jumped to his feet as the door clattered to a close behind Claire, a sweep of cold air extinguishing the cozy warmth of the kitchen. “I told ye I would get ye from Hillhead! Look at ye lass! Yer half frozen!”

Without a second thought Jamie began to rub her arms through her coat with vigour, his hands spreading across their width. Claire smiled, easing into his touch and enjoying the flooding warm sensation spreading through her. “I told you it would’ve taken you longer to drive than it took me to walk!”

She stepped away from him to remove her wintery armour. Jamie, ever the gentleman took each item in hand and disappeared off into the cloakroom.

Claire realised that for a professional kitchen, Broch Morda stood at almost half the size of her kitchen back in Gleneagles. Stainless steel countertops lay framed against warm orange lights, running far wider than it did long. A noticeboard of pictures stood pinned to the side of the doorway Jamie had gone through, with various smiling faces of women and men she thought must be family or friends of the staff. He’d set up shop on a countertop, the competition papers strewn across it like confetti. Various passages had been scrawled on, but the same page she had stared at for hours lay atop. ‘£500,000 and a feature in Dessert Professional.’ The things she could do with that money… It felt foolish entertaining the idea that they might win when she knew the competition would be so incredibly fierce, but for an odd moment here and there Claire felt the thrill of hope.

She removed her laptop from her bag, setting it beside the scattered papers. Jamie returned to her a moment later and began piling them for her. Claire noticed his gaze lingering on that page one last time as he tapped the stack against the table surface. “Intense isn’t it?” She opened the lid and typed swiftly on the glowing keys, “I don’t think I could be bothered to write everything out by hand.”

“Ye can say that again.” Jamie retorted over his shoulder as he walked toward a large chrome espresso machine. “Coffee?”

Claire looked over her shoulder, watching the back of Jamie’s body with fascination before remembering herself. “An Americano if it’s not too much trouble?” 

Jamie twisted his shoulders and Claire noticed the all too prominent musculature that lay beneath the fabric. “Nay problem, Sassenach.” He smiled, turning his back to her once more to remove the portafilters on the monstrous machine. “Black, no -”

“-sugar!” she finished, laughing sweetly at their matching comments.

Hitting device off the bin, he refilled it with earthen like rubble, returned it to its home and turned on the device. A burring noise erupted from the machine abruptly, followed by a whooshing sound that accompanied any and all coffee shops. In a mere moment the thick scent of coffee had begun to fill the air, bitter and inviting.

“Anything exciting happened today?” Claire asked, not drawing her attention from her laptop screen.

“Nothin’ unusual - same old.” He retorted, the noise of the machine finally dying down. Jamie walked back toward Claire holding the coffee cups in the same awkward way that all large gentlemen carry things that are small and delicate.

The mug had not yet reached the table before Claire had intercepted his hand with her own and taken the brew from him. Pursing her lips, she briefly blew onto the liquid in an attempt to cool it before taking a hesitant sip, a fleeting expression of bliss crossing her fine featured face.

“Before I forget - I’ve a study treat for us.” Jamie touched Claire’s shoulder for a moment before striding over to a warmer near a large convection oven. He removed two chocolate pastry tarts that sat centre on small white plates, carrying them swiftly over to their station. “A little extra kept back from service tonight. Dinna tell the chef.”

Claire felt her mouth water and eyes turn greedy at the sight. “If you serve me dessert every time we meet, Jamie Fraser, I’m going to be positively fat.”

“Dinna say such daft things. I’ll serve ye dessert until I get sick o’ doing so.” Jamie left again, retrieved two forks and offered one to her.

The tart sat neatly presented on the plate; a fluted pastry casing decorated with poached cherries, a fine dusting of deep red cacao and a dash of crushed pistachio powder. They broke through the sweet pastry with a clink of their forks on the plate face. A deliciously dark and rich chocolate fondant oozed from the tart, an accompanying layer of poached cherries glistened from beneath.

Claire raised her fork eagerly to her mouth and tasted the delight. A luscious chocolate swirled across her tongue, the splendid creaminess cut by the soft, sweet texture of macerated mahogany cherries. She bit into the flesh of the fruit, its aromatic juiciness bursting between her teeth. She swallowed, the lingering taste of the cherries poaching liqueur lingering. An audible sigh came from Claire, and at once, she blushed.

“Good?” Jamie asked, somewhat enthralled by the noise she had made.

“Mhmm.” Without uttering another syllable Claire took another mouthful, and said no more until the plate was empty.

—–>>>>——

An indulgent amount of time had passed before they had begun working on the application. Jamie had found himself staring at Claire’s face for short bouts of time, noticing the way that the light hit her cheekbones in such a way that he felt the desire to see how sharp the bones would be beneath his fingertips.

“So according to the paperwork, we need to name a team captain.” Claire stated matter of fact, tapping the screen with a slender finger. Jamie snapped out of his stupor, taking a sip of his now cold coffee and adding a short grunt in agreement.

Claire turned on her chair, her body facing his and spoke assertively. “I think I should be captain as it was my idea.”

“Is that right!?” Jamie exclaimed in surprise and amusement. He stood up from his chair and walked toward the sink, placing the mugs into the porcelain tub with an abrupt clatter.

“I should be captain because we’re using my kitchen.” Jamie raised his hands in an exhibiting fashion.

“I have more experience!” Claire argued back, her body jolting back from his retort.

Jamie walked back toward her, amused at the look of horror on her face. “And yer famous and I’m not.”

Claire stood up and walked to meet Jamie in the center of the kitchen, squaring up against his six feet four inch frame. “I know several of the judges personally. And-“ She stressed, placing particular emphasis on her next statement, “- I’ve already started to prepare a potential portfolio.”

Jamie stepped back once more, hitting the sink behind him. Claire had him trapped and he couldn’t escape, both literally and figuratively. She was almost entirely flush against him, dark eyes blazing into his. Jamie felt the air leaving his chest while he stared, the ability to construct a sentence in retort escaping him entirely.

“I’m the Captain. Problem with that?”

Jamie coughed in a vain attempt to clear his throat and recapture the escaped words. “Aye -” His voice erupted high, he coughed again. “I mean no! None, Sassenach.”

Claire looked at him, feeling particularly smug in her win. She raised her eyebrow, twitching it somewhat suggestively and turned away back to their make-shift office.

“I like a woman on top.”

A deafening silence fell.

Claire’s body stilled in amazement, her eyes widened with disbelief. Had she heard that right? The Scotsman behind her stood with ears and face burning furiously red, his eyes pinned on Claire’s back thinking madly to himself, ‘did I just say that?!’

Several beats passed before finally, with a voice laden with confidence and a hint of flirtation, Claire spoke. “It’s far more pleasurable that way, James.” She stepped away from him, swaying her hips as she walked back toward their station.

Jamie was absolutely resolute that in that moment he could have been knocked over with a feather.

—->>>>—–

Jamie ran his hands across his face, exhaling loudly in tired frustration. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m going to end up signing away our first born.”

“They can have the kid.” Claire blinked hard in an attempt to clear her blurring eyes.

The paperwork had seemed difficult when Claire and Jamie had first read it separately. Now, sitting together, it had become apparent that it felt impossible. An initial thirty pages had been examined, however upon finding out there was a further attached document of twenty seven pages, Jamie had sworn rather loudly before stalking off into the bar for a bottle of whisky. Fifty seven pages of rules and regulations now sat displayed on Claire’s laptop screen, teasing and taunting them. Each set of questions for each couple was preceded by ten pages of mandatory reading.

“Are we done?” Jamie’s voice held hope, while his fingers held tighter still on the whisky tumbler.

“We’ve still got-” Claire peered down at the page number in the corner and groaned, “-seventeen pages to go.”

A comical groan came from Jamie, his head already swarming with text and the growing warm sensation of the whisky. “Can we finish later? I’m beggin’ ye I canna - my eyes are crossing.”

Claire closed her laptop lid somewhat unceremoniously, half slamming it closed. “Bollocks to it - we can do it over the phone tomorrow.” A yawn left her, her chest rising once, twice before she stopped and picked up her own whisky tumbler.

Jamie stretched in an exaggerated motion, his arms raised above his head as he moved his large shoulders. For a moment Claire noticed the line of his waistband becoming even more visible as he stretched, his shirt rising revealing a toned abdomen beneath and a small dusting of red fuzz…

“Ye said ye had ideas for our portfolio?” Jamie began, snapping Claire out of her charmed gaze.

“I do - if you can manage to listen.” She turned to face Jamie, straightening herself as if it shrug off her previous thoughts.

“By yer leave, Captain. Go on.” He nudged her arm with his elbow, winking at her in a way that reminded Claire of a rather solemn owl.

The competition guidelines stated they were to submit a portfolio of samples to be collected in three weeks time, consisting of a sample bonbon, petit four and chocolate craft. These items would then be collected and taken to a private location for judging. A phone call would be made to those accepted into the competition. Claire reiterated as such to Jamie, before drifting into her ideas, the light of creativity shining through her words.

They would make a traditional Sacher Torte with a twist for their portfolio petit four. A heavenly creation with three kinds of chocolate, a smooth apricot preserve and a dash of espresso powder to liven the flavour of the chocolate. The ganache would incorporate the espresso powder once more, a rich and thick robe for the cake. Finished with a delicate, chocolate hand made seal for each petit four.

Their portfolio bonbon had been created with Jamie in mind, though Claire would be hesitant to admit it. His demeanor, those indigo eyes set beneath dark lashes like storm clouds before a lightning strike. The mere presence of him had hung beside her for the days they had spent apart. A sweet Speyside whisky caramel, she had decided, and a tobacco dark chocolate ganache all sealed within a bitter dark chocolate shell. Edible liquid gold would spatter the outside, gleaming against the darkness like the strung up lights hanging overhead on Ashton Lane.

“Absolutely sold on that bonbon - my mouth’s watering just at the thought. A Sacher Torte -” He paused for a moment to contemplate the choice. “I suppose it’s a classic and we can certainly prove our flavour abilities with a wee dash of espresso for aroma… What’re ye thinkin’ for chocolate craft?”

“You’re free to disagree with me, because it’s a little… simple. A sample of flowers.” Claire expected him to scoff at the idea, but Jamie simply nodded for her to continue. “I’m not going to say unoriginal but we could really show our potential with detail.” She described to him the concept; a tasteful sample of handcrafted and handpainted Peony roses, chocolate and sugar Dahlia’s, and English roses sprayed with a deep red cacao butter. Claire held strong the image of the flowers in Vianne’s Chocolatier sitting beneath the glass bell jars and the lasting, aromas that haunted their vivid realism. She would mimic those very jars with a little blown sugar work, a skill she rarely managed to use. Each delicate and delectable bloom would be held in a sugar orb - as though suspended in time.

“When I saw them as a child, they just enchanted me. I know it’s simple I just -”

“It’s brilliant, really. It covers everything we need, it shows our skills… I trust ye Claire, and ye have yet to disappoint.”

Claire’s eyes widened, shocked at the implicit trust Jamie had immediately placed in her. Unusual for the men of the pastry world, she thought. “Oh - I just… Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, Sassenach.” Jamie’s heart rushed with pride as Claire’s face filled with a childlike glee.

“Okay then.” She began typing again, her eyes drifting from the keyboard to screen. “I meant to ask - where were you trained?” Claire’s voice began to rise in amusement, a small smirk creeping at the corners of her lips. “Glasgow College of Mediocre Pastry Chefs?”

Jamie let out a guffaw of laughter, placing a hand on his chest as if steadying himself. “Think of that one all by yerself did ye?” Claire laughed at her own joke, her smile wide bearing a line of straight white teeth. “I think ye’ll find I was trained at the Royal Academy of Culinary Arts! And I studied for a year at École Lenôtre! Where’d ye study? The British School of Mediocre Chocolatiers?”

Claire shook her head and inhaled, clicking her tongue in a disapproving sound. “Don’t use someone else’s joke on them! Rookie mistake there, Fraser.” Another melodic laugh left her throat, teasing and charming. Jamie sat smirking despite himself. “I was trained at Le Cordon Bleu and apprenticed under Ruth Hinks.” She grinned, pausing momentarily before delivering her final competitive blow. “And I was personally chosen to apprentice Vianne Raymond.”

Jamie fell suddenly silent; his eyes grew wide and pupils dilated in shock, his body rigid as though frozen still.

There was a long pause as the weight of what Claire had told Jamie settled in. His mouth fell open before he finally stammered out several broken sentences; “Ye were… For Vianne Raymond? She’s… I mean… She never… How?!”

The Vianne who had taught Claire the way to pipe the perfect Macaron, dust rolled truffles and cuddled before she had departed from her company, also happened to be the elusive and extraordinary exclusive Vianne Raymond. The Queen of Patisserie and Chocolate. The woman who had cooked for Kings, Queens, Presidents and held three Michelin stars. Jamie thought his heart might burst from the shock.

"I was eleven and living in Rouen. I found her first shop, kept going back and she taught me for almost a year. I only left because my Uncle had a new position. She’s the reason I’m a chef actually.” Claire watched a myriad of expressions cross Jamie’s face before he finally settled on a mixture of abject relief and amazement.

“An’ there was me thinking I hadn’t a chance in this competition…”

——>>>>>——

The paperwork was long forgotten as Claire and Jamie had fallen into stories of years long past. Claire regaled him with tales of Rouen and Vianne, of her childhood crossing seas and deserts alike, collecting flavours along the way. Jamie told her of his passion stemming from his mother, her love of Sunday baking and sneaking late night pastries on the steps of Broch Morda. A pleasant mood had fallen over them, their whisky tumblers filled and emptied once more.

They had somehow moved closer, sat with arm pressed to arm, her leg laced over his. In silent thought Jamie and Claire had realised that both felt immensely at ease with the other, that it took no trying to make conversation or to simply sit in one another’s company. It was pleasant, Jamie had noticed. To sit with a beautiful woman and drink whisky, listening to her speak animatedly and smile so sweetly. His dreaming was interrupted though by the sudden announcement that time had unfortunately caught up to them.

A distinctive buzzing noise cut through their blissfully ignorant haze. Claire rummaged through her bag to find the silver device vibrating furiously flashing in stark white lettering;

FRANK RANDALL CALLING

She answered, an alert and angry voice appearing on the other end of the line. “Hello! - Yes! Sorry we were so caught up… I’ll be outside in two seconds… I am sorry darling, really. Just a moment longer… Bye Frank.”

Claire dropped her phone into her bag as though it had burned her. “Christ is that midnight?!”

“Just a wee bit eager to leave me there, Sassenach? I’m wounded.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at him, a dimple appearing in her cheek as she fought not to smirk. “I can only fight the desire to kick you for so long, Fraser.”

“Weel as long as it’s desire that’s simmering, I’d forgive ye.” Jamie retrieved Claire’s coat and handed them to her. He glanced down at her phone for a moment before asking quietly, “He’s no’ mad at ye is he?”

“Who? Frank? Probably. He’s a stickler for being on time. It won’t kill him, don’t worry.” She continued to wind her scarf around her neck as Jamie felt an unease creeping over him. His fingers sought out the scar on his hand and he rubbed it in the same circular motion as he always did. “You’re welcome to meet Frank. If you’d like to - I mean you don’t have to…”

“Aye, Sassenach. ‘Course. We can just cut through the restaurant - it’ll be easier.” Claire grinned once more and made for the kitchen doors. Jamie glanced into the polished silver of the standing fridge, brushing himself down before departing.

Walking through the restaurant, Jamie watched Claire crossing the floor framed by the twinkling overhead lights of Broch Morda shone like a clear night. Each movement she made elegantly, stepping across the floor framed by the spotlights that cast warm beams across her body and face. He stopped just for a moment to see her, just existing before she interrupted him with a slightly impatient look on her face, demanding that he hurry.

Jamie unlocked the restaurant doors, the bolts cold against his fingertips. Claire stood back as it swung open to reveal a rather annoyed and chilled looking Frank on the bustling street. She walked out from behind Jamie and into the waiting arms of the man before them both.

“Frank I’m so sorry darling, time just escaped me!”

“It’s fine - I’m just very cold, Claire. I wish you had warned me in the very least.” His voice was clipped, an accent laced with breeding and an education from some Tory breeding ground of an institution.

Claire stepped back from Frank, revealing his full form to Jamie. “Darling, this is James Fraser - he’s my partner for the competition. Jamie, my partner, Frank.” Claire’s tone sept with delight. She was proud to introduce Jamie to Frank, proud to get the opportunity to introduce the two sides of her life to the other and hopefully be able to find a common ground between them.

Despite Claire’s delight, wary eyes met wary eyes. In a beat, recognition and violent distrust settled between the two of them. Frank’s back straightened, as did Jamie’s. A leather gloved hand stuck forward to be shaken in an attempt at civility, only to be met all too briefly by the firm hand of the Scotsman.

“I do hope you are working well, hmm? No incidents?” Frank spoke with a vitriolic tone that made Jamie’s spine prickle.

She was hopeful in her tone, standing between both men and watching each as she spoke. “Not at all, it’s gone wonderfully well - don’t you agree, Jamie?”

Jamie broke his eye contact with Frank, smiling at Claire with a sweet sincerity. “Verra well, Sassenach. If ye don’t mind I must be getting back. I’ll speak with ye later, aye?”

Something’s wrong, Claire thought. His face, his expression - he’s almost backing away from us. She stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on to Jamie’s arm. His arms felt like ice beneath her fingers, and despite the cold she knew he couldn’t possibly be so chilled unless something had spooked him. “Yes, of course. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

Jamie nodded in her direction before turning back and bolting the doors to Broch Morda behind her. Frank had already begun to walk away from the doors, leaving her eyeing the door briefly before stepping quickly to catch up to his pace.

“Something wrong, Frank?” Claire laced her arm through Frank’s in an attempt to match his speed.

“Fraser, you said? James Fraser?”

She nodded, her eyebrows knitting in curiosity. “Yes - why? Have you heard of him before?”

In the twinkling lights of Ashton Lane, a cold stream of air settling heavy chilling all to the very bones of their being, Frank stopped. In a tone plain and carefully chosen, he spoke a warning that made Claire’s heart fall.

“Just be cautious, Claire. That Fraser boy is not who he seems….”

-  
End chapter four.


	6. Ficlet: Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find Jamie and Fergus at work in Broch Morda kitchen and Fergus seems to be full of questions regarding a certain Chef Beauchamp...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again all!  
> My sincerest apologies for the quietness! I've been utterly snowed under at my job, however I'm finally free from the crazy project again! Thank you all for commenting and reading, it means the world. Chapters will hopefully be coming out far more regularly now so please do stick around.  
> \- S xx

“So is she coming back?” 

Against the noise of the kitchen, the whirr of mixers and hurried voices, Fergus looked up at Jamie with a spark of mischievous curiosity.

With a clang of a skillet against the hot iron of the stove top, Jamie basted the yellow-red flesh of the searing peaches once, twice, three times with amber liquid before looking up briefly at Fergus. “Is who coming back?”

“Claire - ton amour!” Fergus said, rolling his r’s in a teasing tone.

Jamie looked up brightly at the mention of Claire’s name, smirking with delight and pointing the tip of the fanned spatula toward Fergus. “Less of that you!” He moved the spatula up and down, small droplets of the cooking stock flicking through the air. Jamie’s eyes moved back toward the pan, turning up the corner of a peach. “Yer as bad as Murtagh!”

“I’m French! Love is my business.” Fergus remarked with an air of surety.

“Is that right!? Well the only love between Miss Beauchamp and I is dessert. Claire has someone in her life, lad.”

Fergus flicked his hand dismissively. “A mere trifle. True love is always triumphant!”

Jamie looked at his son with amusement, the corner of his lip quirking upward. “If you say so, Cupid.”

“When do I get to meet her?” Fergus perked up at the prospect of meeting the illustrious woman his father had spoke of with admiration and a flicker of love.

“Weel to answer ye first question, she’ll be here tonight but you’ll be back at Elise’s. Next time I promise.”

“Oh,” Fergus said dejected, “Okay.”

A brief pause followed before Fergus started again, “What’s she like? Is she trés joli?”

Jamie looked up, cocking his eyebrow and spoke in his best authoritative voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be chopping?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching your pan?” Fergus shot back with confident amusement. A bloom of smoke sat hovering above the sizzling skillet, Brandy spitting viciously.

“Bastard!” Jamie grabbed the pan with a towel wrapped hand, removing it from the scorching heat. Armed with the spatula, he flipped over the tender peach, checking for the dreaded blackness of burned sugar.

“So is she?” Fergus’ curiously asked again.

Jamie answered with an impatient sharpness, “Is she what?”

“Beautiful?”

Jamie looked up at Fergus again to see the soft interest of a boy half dreaming in fairy tales, and half on the peak of manhood. He placed down the spatula, wiped his hands on his apron and spoke softly, “Aye, lad. She’s clever too, ken? And she’s a wicked sense of humour. Speaks fluent French too.”

“She does!?” Fergus’ eyes grew wide, his body jolting backward with shock. Jamie noticed he was clearly impressed by the description of Claire, knowing no doubt that it would welcome more curious and invasive questions.

Jamie leant forward as though to speak a secret below the ears of his colleagues, “Aye…” He paused for effect for the briefest of moments. “And if ye tell Murtagh what I just said I’ll make ye dance with yer great aunt Edith at the wedding as punishment!” He laughed in a burst, picking up a peach half and placing it onto a white chopping board. 

“But - but she smells of dust and pinches my cheek like I am a child! Non! Tu ne peux pas me faire!” Fergus stepped back, waving his hands in a desperate ‘no’ motion to add only to his insistence.

“Then get chopping and keep yer mouth shut!” Jamie laughed again, drawing his fingers across his mouth in a zipping motion as Fergus reluctantly picked up the short knife and began shopping once more.

“Now, more importantly, what’s this I hear about you and a lass at school by the name of Iris…?

\- END -

Translations:  
Ton amour - Your love   
Non! Tu ne peux pas me faire! - No! You cannot make me


	7. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a warning from Frank, Claire returns to Broch Morda with an air of suspicion and caution. Can Jamie set her mind at ease during their first night of competition training?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry it has taken such an age to get a proper chapter published! I've had a nightmare amount of work and was hit with the worst writers block. 
> 
> I hope that this makes up for your wait and I do hope you enjoy! Any feedback is very much appreciated and I thank all of you for reading, leaving kudos and commenting. 
> 
> Bon appetit! 
> 
> \- S

Just Desserts  
Chapter five: ‘Revelations’

\----

 

The taxi ride to Broch Tuarach had been uneventful to say the least. An imposingly large taxi driver had said nothing to me once I’d entered his cab, save for mumbled sentences to himself.

I had fifteen minutes to think, to try to get some semblance of sense constructed before I saw Jamie again for our first training evening. The picture of Jamie standing in his wedding kilt and a pair of Saltire socks stared back at me tauntingly. I'd opened it to… well to look at him and find the man I knew and the man Frank had spoken about with abject disgust.

_Almost a week prior, on the slow drive through the infinite darkness of Auchterarder’s winding roads, Frank had regaled me with a tale that drew scarce similarity to the man I knew._

_“I'm not saying this to scare you, I'm saying it because I love you and I want to keep you safe.”_

_Jamie Fraser, nicknamed ‘Red Jamie’ due to both appearance and reputation, had apparently been known for his temper and snap violent actions. The group of individuals with whom Jamie was acquainted held equally nightmarish reputations. During a university party a decade earlier, Jamie had arrived and launched a vicious attack against Frank’s cousin leaving him a bleeding, battered mess. Frank had begun to sound like a sensationalist news article in his descriptions. I’d been sent into a spiral of shock followed by blatant denial at the allegation. A small amount of fear ran riotously through my mind at the possibility of the story being true._

_I had tried to imagine the event, tried to imagine Jamie as a figure of harm to no avail. Each image conjured was replaced by another more contradictory to the image in Frank’s story; Jamie the chef; the proud Scot; the man who put aside dessert for me; the man who told me in the deepest depth of the night he was afraid to disappoint the memory of his parents… The man staring back at me in a picture with a ridiculous, beaming smile._

_“You've met him before, why didn't you say something earlier?” My words stumbled out as I shook my head in short movements, my eyes pinned on his sharp featured face._

_“I was hardly paying attention to some stranger in a restaurant, Claire.” He sighed heavily, as though he was exhausted by any questioning of the validity of the story. He turned the corner sharply, my house coming into view at the end of the road. “Fraser is not the figure of safety.”_

_His words had been nothing less than a direct warning: At the first sign of conflict, I should leave quickly and not look back…._

 

“Nine fifty.”

The driver interrupted my reverie, looking through his rear-view mirror at me with a distinct expression of displeasure and disinterest. Rummaging through my bag with nervous haste, I pulled out a ten pound note and deposited it through the small slot in the plexiglass that separated us. The door clunked as I opened it, the rush of cold air hitting my legs as I climbed out of the taxi and pulled the door along its runner to a close.

I stood at the corner of Lilybank Lane, staring straight up Ashton Lane to Broch Morda. The damp cobbles reflected soft light, glowing as though they had been lit from within. With each clicking step, I took heavy calming breaths, my breath billowing around me in a cold cloud. A collective of smokers stood chattering outside, a white plume of smoke hovering around them like a fog in the cold of the early evening.

A tall, stout man stood in my way, accompanied by a short, lithe companion who stood smoking leisurely like a chimney. “Sorry,” my voice wobbled, “Can I get past?”

“Aye, sorry! Angus wi’ ye get out the way man and let the lass through?” His voice was gruff and booming in the way that all gentlemen his size usually had. I bid them a short thank you and stepped over the threshold into the warmth, sweetened air of the restaurant.

A portly woman greeted me as I began wandering onto the floor of the restaurant. Greying brunette hair framed a soft featured face, one which sported a large smile and dimples either side of her grin. She presented an almost immediately noticeable maternal demeanour, a figure of kindness and authority.

“Hello, I’m here for Jamie? I’m supposed to meet him.”

“Oh aye? Weel the only Jamie we’ve got left is the chef. Who might you be?” She eyed me with the same quizzical stare and suspicion that most mothers greet their children’s new paramours.

“Claire - Claire Beauchamp. I’m his partner?” I half stammered, “For the Chocolatier competition?”

“Claire!” Jamie appeared almost from the ether, his face painted with the flush of exhaustion. He was clad in a grey shirt and dark blue jeans, his hair pushed back from his face making him look older and more distinguished than his usual boyish look. The full feeling entered my heart again and I knew my face was more than likely flushing from the sight of him. I hadn’t ever been so thankful for low lighting.

“Jamie.” My voice fell soft, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, I was just introducing myself to -”

“Mrs Fitzgibbons - though Mrs Fitz will do fine.” Her accent softened greatly, a shy hand patting my arm in a gentle reassurance.

“Mrs Fitz is Broch Morda’s Floor Manager, nothing gets past her. There’s not a person in here who shouldn’t be.” Jamie grinned cheekily at Mrs Fitz who in turn gently slapped him on the arm, laughing with an embarrassed delight.

“Aye, quite right. Now if ye dinna mind I’ve today’s notes to review. Pleasure t’ meet ye, Claire.”

“The pleasure was mine, Mrs Fitz.” I mirrored her gesture, placing my hand on her covered arm.

“Shall we?” Jamie gestured toward the kitchen and I nodded, beginning a lingering walk beside him, arm to arm.

“I’ve got to ask just out of plain curiosity. What's with the early closing hours? I've never known a restaurant to turn away business.” He looked down, shuffling his feet against the carpet.

“It gives the other staff time to rest. We've a hard-enough business as it is without exhausting everyone. We think of ourselves as a family at Broch Morda, but sometimes you need to get out and see your own.” I was suddenly overwhelmed by the consideration behind his words, the genuine and absolute kindness in the gesture. “I don't imagine it's the same for you in your place?”

A short scoffing sound erupted from my lips that clearly amused Jamie, “Not a chance in hell. I've days owed to me, but I've never really had the chance or a reason to use them.”  
  
“Frank doesn't take you away for wee breaks?”

The momentary lightness that had blossomed in the moments in being back in Jamie’s company had been replaced by the same disappointment that crept into my heart and mind each time Frank had cancelled a plan or changed his mind at the last minute. I stuck my hands into my pockets, fidgeting with the lining. “He's very busy… I mean we both are. It's just not…”

Jamie, it seemed had picked up on the awkwardness of the question and moved on quickly, “Shame… I suppose we get a little break together for the competition if that’s any consolation to you? Though, I'd definitely prefer to take you up to the highlands.” He pushed open the kitchen door open for me, waving me in with his left hand.

I stepped ahead of him into the gleaming space ahead eying the room. “I'd love to explore the highlands more. You know I've lived in Scotland for six years and I've yet to see Glen Coe?” In a brief message two days prior we had decided to begin with our Sacher Torte. As it would be the most ‘experimental’ of our portfolio desserts, it seemed the obvious choice. I had emailed over an ingredient list as well as equipment I thought we would need for the exercise. Jamie had quite obviously been busy prior to my arrival; jars of ingredients sat on the surface tops; clean saucepans and bowls stacked neatly beside a variety of cooking tools and some of the larger tools, the stand mixer for one, had been moved to sit right beside us.

I turned around to see Jamie’s dark eyebrows raised in surprise, mouth open in mock horror.

“That's a disgrace! Forget the cake! I'll grab the car keys, you get our coats!” He feigned rushing away, throwing open the door. “Let’s go!”

I couldn’t help but laugh at him. His ease of humour, his easy temperament shone through in even the silliest of moments. I thought back once more to Frank’s story, and the heaviness that had fallen away when I’d first seen his glowing smile settled once more into my chest.

\----------------

Jamie stood by my side, preparing the weights of ingredients as I prepared our miniature spring form pans.

“How would you like to break down our evening, Sassenach?”

“I’d prefer to do a mock plating for anything we do over the next few weeks. I think it’ll get us used to working together to plate a finished product and gives us the opportunity to work out any kinks we might have.” I looked down over the method, looking back up to Jamie who had somehow crept closer and stood immediately towering over my shoulder. “I suggest we prep together. I’ll prepare the batter if you can assist with weights. If you could prepare the jam then I’ll get started on chocolate ganache and seals?”

“Sounds like a plan, Captain.” He grinned, handing me my whites.

We fell silent as we both entered our Chef ‘modes’. In the kitchen, each measurement, each choice counted toward your finished product and the success of it. Jamie had dutifully measured out each ingredient as needed, presenting them in neat porcelain ramekins along the bench. The scene lovingly reminded me of Vianne, and I felt myself touch the gifted necklace around my neck in a moment of melancholia.

Making a Sacher Torte had been one of many recipes covered during my training. A traditional and beautiful desert, a firm chocolate cake sandwiched with a sweet apricot jam. We’d decided to twist the recipe a little, bringing forth the richness of the chocolate through the magic of a bold espresso powder and extra chocolate.

I’d simmered butter and milk in a high sided pan, luscious buttery pools floating golden atop the milk. I added the discs of dark and milk chocolate, each piece making a flat, full noise against the button of the pan. With several sweeping stirs, the mixture had become a glistening pool of chocolate sauce that I swiftly decanted into a clear glass bowl. Separate yolk and white, beat the former into delicate caster sugar, beat whites into cloudlike peaks for volume.

Jamie and I spoke quickly and in short bursts as we worked, chattering about everything and nothing. I ignored the growing anxiety that lay heavy in my mind.

“How’s Gleneagles?” Jamie had asked, chopping the flesh of fresh apricots with swift, military precision.

I eyed the measuring of sugar, “Same old. Anything new coming up on your menu?”

“We’ve got some ideas but I have to talk them through with Murtagh first.” He turned away from me, tilting the chopping board to let the chunks of apricot fall into the base of the pan.

“Can’t wait to hear about them. Any new burns? That’s always one in my kitchen.”

“Couple of fingers an’ the inside of my wrist.”

I looked up filled with a peculiar childlike glee, twisting my right wrist toward him, “You’re kidding! I burned the inside of my wrist like two days ago! We match!” Jamie looked up and grinned, the top row of his teeth showing.

Before long I’d begun lamenting my desire to have my own vacuum sealer after eying the contraption that sat to the left of me.

“You know what it’s like – anything you want to have in your own kitchen has at least three zeroes following.”

“I’ve got one you can use if you’d like. It’s our spare - I’ve got it in the flat. I’ll probably need it back at some point, but yer welcome to it for now. I’ll drop it into Gleneagles tomorrow before I leave for the wedding?”

“That’s terribly kind of you. Are you sure?”

“O’ course.” He’d grinned and continued stirring, mumbling what I was sure amounted to, “anything for you”.

\-----------------

Final steps followed; cake flour, cocoa and espresso powders joined my satiny, luscious chocolate mixture in a cloudburst. I set the pan into the oven behind us, a rush of heat flushing my face and body.

Jamie continued busying himself with the jam, stirring frequently and checking the thermometer perched on the side of the pan. We’d fallen back into silence as we both continued through each step like automatons, checking each measure and inspecting each ingredient.

I’d turned to a large slab of Valrhona chocolate, a blissful dark chocolate that almost burst with scent with each chop. As my knife hit the board, once, twice and a third time I found myself thinking of Frank again and the tale he’d told me. My eyes flicked to Jamie, who stood dripping jam onto an iced plate to check its consistency. He looked so focused, so in tune with what he was doing…. The thoughts became a cacophony, deafening me until my head began to ache.

“What’s on yer mind, Sassenach? I can hear the cogs turning from here.” I looked up to see Jamie facing me, his large body half looming over mine.

I ceased chopping and flittered my hand in dismissal, “Oh - just away with the fairies.”

“I can tell it’s more than just daydreaming, Claire. What’s wrong?”

There was a brief pause in which I considered just feigning tiredness, but the sincerity in his tone, his expression fuelled my ferocious guilt. The words spilled out of my mouth messily, “Frank said something after I left last Sunday and it’s troubling me.”

“And what was that?”

“Promise me that you won’t take this the wrong way.” My eyes searched his face, hoping and praying he wouldn’t react explosively.

“Aye - though I canna lie yer worrying me a bit.” Jamie’s eyebrows knitted and he look a short step closer to me.

“He said I shouldn’t trust you. That you’re not who you seem.”

His whole body stiffened, standing taller and more imposing than I had ever seen him. “Did he now?” He spoke through his teeth and the tone alone sent waves of nervous through me. “And just what else did Frank Randall have to say about me?”

I half stammered, every breath of air had escaped the room and the floor beneath my feet had become liquid as molten chocolate. “Without rhyme or reason, you and a gang had attacked his cousin at university and almost half killed him. You’ve a volatile temper, keep in with a bad crowd and I should be wary of you.”

In the moments that followed, the only sounds that echoed off the surrounding walls were that of Jamie’s enraged breaths and my furiously beating heart. His pupils had dilated, lips pulled into a sharp line. He flexed his left hand, long fingers curling into a heavy fist.

“Claire - there are some things I canna tell you and I’ll ask nothing of ye that ye canna give me. When we tell each other something, let it be the truth. I have an immense respect for you, and I think that respect has room for some secrets but not for lies. Do ye agree?”

“I do, absolutely.”

Jamie came around to stand beside me, leaning against the bench. He folded his arms up across his body, guarding himself against the oncoming story.

“This I will tell you, because you need to know the truth – and I need you to know who I am.”

He began, voice cold. “Whatever he’s told you,” Jamie said, “there’s a lot more to the story.”

 

He began his story with a simple statement, one of which drained all oxygen from my lungs.

“I know Frank. I met him ten years ago.”

He began by clearing up the lesser accusations Frank had thrown first. Jamie explained that the gang in question, those with nightmarish reputations were in fact Jamie’s cousins, Angus and Rupert. While admittedly rough around the edges, they were good people who talked more fighting talk than doing actual fighting.

“You might’ve seen them at the door if they were still there. Tall guy with a beer belly and a shorter guy with a beard?” My mind had flashed back to the hour prior, to the men who stood in the doorway looking no more terrifying than your average man on the street.

“I assume he’ll have mentioned the nickname too,” I’d nodded. “Red Jamie as I was commonly known came from playing rugby - not from beating people to shit. There were four Jamie’s on my team and you can forget a name, but this mop,” He pointed at his fiery hair, “not so much. It was just an epithet if you will.”

Toward the more serious accusation of temper and volatility, Jamie had become almost entirely too quiet. His voice murmured, vibrating deep in his throat. He held back, and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t speak at all.

“When Jenny was at university I went to visit her. I was in London at school, I missed her… Long story short we ended up at party and in the midst of it I realised that I'd lost her so off I went to find her.” His jaw set with anger at the memory, eyes pinned on some fixture ahead of us.

“I found her pinned against a wall fighting off some fella who was trying to stick his hands up her skirt.” He paused, and I felt myself go numb from head to toe, blood rushing to my toes. I was going to pass out if he finished the sentence in the way I thought he might. Jamie had quite clearly realised this as he immediately took hold of my arm and followed his pause with “- it _wasn’t_ Frank.” A sweeping sensation of relief rushed across my body, and I exhaled a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

“I pulled him off and started to beat seven shades out of the bastard. Thought that was the end of it - but oh, I was verra wrong about that.”

Jamie had stayed with Jenny overnight, acting as a silent guardian while his sister feigned sleep. In the morning, he’d left her to head off for a run. However, before he’d reached the second landing a group of six men had appeared, blocking his escape. Without hesitancy, they had begun to attack Jamie.

“It turns out that the guy I had beaten up was Jonathan Randall, Frank’s cousin. And Frank wasn’t going to let someone do that without making a… statement shall we say.” I raised a hand to my mouth, holding back the gasp of pure horror as Jamie continued to regale me.

“Jonathan was a psychotic bastard at the best of times, but God when they'd finished with me… I was a right state; broken ribs, two black eyes, three broken teeth and bruising head to toe. One of them stomped on my hand and I ended up having to have surgery to put it right.”

Jamie held out his left hand to show me the final enduring physical mark that lay testament to the story he had told me. In the centre of his palm lay a white, almost star shaped scar; suture holes lay like tiny exclamation points around it. With cold, nervous hands I reached ouch to touch his palm, wanting to be as careful as possible despite its healed nature.

“I was like a bruised peach for months!” Jamie joked, twitching his eyebrows before becoming terribly serious once more. “Frank tried to push for Jonathan to file a formal report against me but that doesn't really work when there's CCTV proving that they'd decided to take justice into their own hands. Dinna, regret it though - not one bit.”

Neither one of us spoke, for how long I didn’t know. I kept my hands on his palm, feeling the scarring beneath my fingertips and the lines of his hands. The truth and the lies of it all hung in the air like a deathly fog, swallowing and choking those who lingered in it.

He’d lied. Frank had lied to me. And Jamie had the scars to prove it.

Jamie broke our silence finally, sighing. “There'll be a tiny mark against my name for punching a man who was trying to force himself on my sister.”

My lip wobbled, the words sticking in my throat like thick, sickly honey. “Why? Why didn’t you say something when I introduced you to him?”

As he’d heard the cogs turning in my mind, I could hear his. He contemplated his answer before looking down to the floor and speaking, “A part of me was afraid that if I mentioned it, you’d never believe me. More than that, I was afraid you would turn your back on being with me. We’ve barely started, couldn’t let ye just… go.”

I felt pinned to the floor; every emotion swarming me like a haze of bees, swallowing me up into a numb oblivion. There were answers I had expected, answers long and short but not the one he had given.

Jamie looked up, eyes rimmed with tears and a blooming look of relief. I stepped forward and for the first time, took him into my embrace and held him as tightly as I could.

“I’ll never turn my back on you, I promise.”

\----------------------->>>>>>>>>>>>\-------------------------

 

In the time following Jamie’s admission, we’d continued to work without much of an appetite between us. The mood of the kitchen was by no means a dark nor distasteful, only the weight of words hung heavy.

Jamie had crafted our chocolate seals for the Sacher Torte, revealing to me a small thistle stamp he’d had made for a dessert two years prior. I’d steadily made the ganache, pouring simmering cream over the dark chocolate; an earthy puddle forming into smooth, glistening dark chocolate. With a sieve, I’d added a dash of espresso and set it aside.

With the components finished, we’d come together to create our first piece of work together. Sandwiching the heavy crumbed cake with Jamie’s apricot jam, we’d glazed it twice to ensure a mirror like finish. Adding our last flash of chocolate, Jamie swept a palette knife across the top of the ganache, leaving a ripple of white chocolate against the midnight darkness of the Valrhona chocolate. Our chocolate seal topped the finished product, and after a brief rest in the refrigerator and there it was, the efforts of over an hour’s work.

“It would be a shame to not at least have a taste. We’ve done all of this work after all.” Jamie’s voice was laden with the same curiosity that struck a chef after each plate. The temptation to taste, to nibble and see if what you’ve made is as perfect as you hoped. “And you know what they say; chocolate soothes the soul and I think we both need a little soothing tonight.”

I nodded, yawning a little from tiredness before half garbling, “Grab a knife and two forks.”

“Nice to see we’ve both got rubber arms when twisted…” He wandered off to a storage cupboard before returning promptly with two forks, a long knife and a white tea plate. The knife cut through the cake like a hot knife through butter, streaks of chocolate lining the silver blade. With another sharp stroke, Jamie placed the cake onto the tea plate and handed me a fork.

“Bon appetit, Sassenach.”

“Bon appetit indeed.” I smiled back at him before cutting the end of the cake with my fork, Jamie’s own clinking with mine as he mirrored my action.

Raising the piece to my mouth, I felt a peculiar rush of excitement in hoping that my planning and our working together would pay off in the dessert. It was almost a test of us; our partnership, our ability to communicate with one another, of us being together.

The crumb touched my tongue and immediately I was greeted with bliss. The velvet chocolate glaze lay smooth against my tongue, rich, creamy and satisfyingly paired with the dense crumb of the cake. The cake was decadently almost spiced by the espresso, enriching the chocolate and heightening the qualities of the cacao. The jam oozed sweet and sharp as I chewed, leaving me to make a small, but audible moan as I ate. It was a plausible taste of true love.

Jamie almost entirely mirrored my response, closing his eyes as he ate as if to shut off an unnecessary sense, to instead focus on taste. As he finished his first mouthful, he’d already begun taking a stab at a second. “I think I need to be left alone wi’ this cake, Sassenach.”

I half laughed before greedily taking another bite myself.

\----------------------------

Our appetites had returned wholeheartedly, leaving us to demolish another large piece of the torte between us before we both were hit with the same sugary nausea. Abandoning it, we turned to the chaos around us and began to tidy up after ourselves, loading up the Broch Morda dishwasher to almost bursting point. The lingering scent of apricots and dark chocolate hung in the air, replacing the heaviness that had fallen over our heads earlier. I had almost spoken entirely too soon as Jamie sheepishly looked at me and began to speak.

“I know this isn’t exactly the time to bring this up again but what you said earlier, about Frank...”

The nervous sensation reared its head once more, and I half wished him to be silent. “Jamie honestly -”

"I want to set something straight, ken? Just one last thing, and I’ll ne’er speak another word of it." He paused, waiting for my acknowledgement.

"I respect ye too much and think of ye too highly to ever cause ye harm. I spoke so poorly when we met - and that was more than enough. So, I promise ye, Claire Beauchamp, as long as I draw breath I will never raise a hand or speak a word against ye."

My heart felt entirely at bursting point and the sincerity of his words sent a prickling shiver down my spine. I stepped closer to him, closing the distance between us. For a moment, I could only look up at him, studying the details of his face; eyes, nose, his dimpled chin and lips.

He leant into me, his forehead resting against mine. I closed my eyes, feeling only the heat of his shaking breath. A simmering temptation had been bubbling since I’d returned to Broch Morda, to just close the gap… He’d taste of chocolate, I knew he would.

“Claire.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, filled with an exhilaration from the tension between us.

“Jamie Fraser, are you still on my premises?!”

I jumped apart from him faster than I’d moved in my life. My hand flew to my chest, pushing against my breast bone.to steady my heavily thumping heart from the startling noise of Mrs Fitz’ announcement. “Christ almighty!”

“I am Mrs Fitz!” Jamie’s’ breaths were jagged from fright, “You get yourself away and I’ll lock up!” He looked down at me, startled as a deer in the headlights of a car.

“I should - I mean it’s late and I’ve work tomorrow -”

“Aye, aye. I’ll get your coat, Sassenach.”

I continued breathing hard as Jamie half stumbled into the coat room, his hands half steadying him on the countertop.

\------------------------

After a brief and rather restrained goodbye, I sat in the back of the taxi with the last ten minutes a maelstrom in my head. My whole body was lit with the warm sensation of desire, my chest heaving beneath my coat.

I had almost **_kissed_** Jamie.

He’d been right there, so handsome… No - beautiful. So outstandingly beautiful that I had stepped forward to be enveloped by him. What had I almost done? Acted on an impulse? Desire? Was it some form of strange fate that the friendship, the trust I had begun to develop with Jamie… I was sure that Frank hadn’t been referring to Jamie being this sort of a danger. God, I had entirely disregarded any attachment to Frank without even a second’s hesitation....

I lay my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes and letting the noise of the traffic outside drown my monologue. One remaining thought lingered; I didn’t feel remorse.

As I just felt myself lulled by the warmth of the car, the sharp shrill ring of my phone sung out from my bag. I plucked the device from the pocket, swiping the screen without clocking once who might be on the line.

“Hello?” I said drowsily.

“Claire? I’m so sorry -”

I sat upright in the chair, suddenly alert. “Jamie? What’s wrong?”

“Everything! Fuck I don't know!” His voice was abrupt with a sudden frustrated fierceness.

“Take a breath and tell me what's happened.”

His voice came frantically, a background bustling noise accompanying it, “Ian just rang - apparently, the cake arrived early and is somehow unsalvageable!” He took a heavy breath, I held the phone tighter. “Jenny's bordering hysterically angry, Ian’s on trying to calm her down and the cake company have fucked off back to Glasgow!”

“Are you fucking serious?! So, what -”

“-I’m leaving for Lallybroch tonight to try to fix it, make her a new one.” His voice was resolute. I could see him, standing pushing his hand through his hair frustrated. “I won’t be able to drop off the vacuum tomorrow...”

I looked around me as though I was looking for something invisible to catch my eye, “Christ forget about the vacuum! Jamie, you can’t possibly make an entire wedding cake yourself!”

“’ll damn well try, Claire!” I heard something drop to the floor in the background, a low thud met by a succession of what I assumed to be Gaelic curses.

“You’re in the wedding party for fucks sake! You’ve got other shit to do besides save a cake!” We had suddenly found ourselves in the middle of an argument with one another. I exhaled in frustration, pausing for a moment to try to bring together some form of idea to help him. Then it struck me. “I'll fix it.”

“Claire I canna ask you to do that.” Jamie’s voice fell soft and suddenly sober, more so than I had ever heard him. For a moment, I doubted that anyone had offered to do something as big as saving something for his family.

I answered as resolutely as he had, speaking in what had been termed my ‘Chef’s voice’, “You’re not asking, I’m telling you.” Holding the phone briefly from my ear, I leant forward toward the plexiglass between the driver and myself. “Could you turn around please? I need to go back to Ashton Lane.”

“Sassenach! Claire are ye listening!?” His voice came booming from the receiver as I put the phone back to my ear.

“Look, I can get Suzette to cover for me at the restaurant, I’m owed time!”

“Claire this isn’t -”

“Jamie for once in your life let someone hold you up!” I snapped back at him, spitting out my words abruptly.

The line went silent. “James Fraser if you’ve hung up on me I’ll never forgive you.”

A short laugh came from his end of the phone, and I could hear the smile beneath his voice. “It’s going to be a job and a half. There are two hundred guests and the kitchen isn't spectacular…”

“Oh, come on! You know we can do this - together.”

“Aye. Together.”

“And just think - it’ll be good practice for us!” I looked down at my watch, and back out of the window.

“You’ll be the end of me, Claire Beauchamp.”

The warmth I had tried to banish rushed back again, lighting up my chest with a wonderful warmth and a blissful excitement. “I’ll see you soon, soldier.”

 

END CHAPTER


	8. Ficlet: Goodnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Off to my land of sweet dreams, tonight I fall asleep with you in my heart.”  
> Claire and Jamie find themselves in close quarters...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!  
> Apologies that I’ve taken so long in publishing something new and that tonight’s chapter is late… editing got in the way. Hope you all enjoy this ficlet, ‘Goodnight’ which is set just after chapter five and stars our lovely Claire and Jamie.  
> Once again thank you all for reading and for the messages, it’s been nothing short of wonderful. The next chapter will be up within the next couple days! x

 

Claire arrived to find Jamie looking quite disheveled and tense, half pacing in the Broch Morda kitchen. In the time between her leaving and returning Jamie had clearly begun packing up equipment and ingredients he thought necessary for his task. With some gentle persuasion and a firmness to her tone, Claire had perched Jamie onto a chair while she began sorting through the haphazardly packed boxes.

“I’ll not be able to repay ye, ken? Never.”

Claire ceased her organising, shaking her head before placing a hand on top of Jamie’s, “I don’t expect you to.” She squeezed his hand, his flesh warm beneath her own. “And while I appreciate the sentiment, if you say anything more to that effect I’ll hit you with a rolling pin.”

“I keep saying it because I mean it.” Jamie leant forward as Claire moved to fasten the last clip on a large blue storage box. Mirroring her action, he took her own hand beneath his and squeezed in return. For all of the strength Jamie held, for his sturdy appearance and confident demeanour in that moment, Claire saw him standing before her looking paper-thin beneath the weight of the situation.She wanted to reassure him, hoping that her words were comforting against the heaviness of the task and the looming clouds of expectation that hung ominously overhead.

“Now I think I’ve got everything sorted - if there’s anything we forget I’ll use my powers of persuasion to have Suzette organise a messenger service.” The woman in question that Claire mentioned happened to be her best friend and Sous Chef for Chef Fairlie, Suzette Moreau. Claire had assured Jamie that during times of panic, Suzette could be relied upon to deliver whatever was needed.

“Weel I was hoping we could be on the road around seven am tomorrow? It’s about a three hour drive to Inverness an’ I’d like to get there reasonably early.”

“Sure,” Claire rolled her shoulders, bones popping like Morse Code, worn under the fatigue of the day. “I’m assuming you’ll want to pop home now and pack?”

“Aye -” Jamie stopped and huffed out a breath, swearing in Gaelic. “Ye haven’t even been home yet.”

Claire shrugged nonchalantly, “I’m here now, there’s no point dwelling. If you don’t mind a little detour you’re welcome to stay with me and we can drive up from Auchterarder. I live right in the village so it’s not too far out.”

Jamie almost slipped off the chair in surprise at her suggestion, kicking the side of the table with a bang which was swiftly followed by yet another array of swear words. “I couldn’t do that! Frank would -”

“The way I’m feeling toward Frank Randall tonight he can fuck it for all I care!” Claire’s voice snapped with anger, a sudden rush of vexation flowing through her veins. She closed the lid on the final box with a little more force than strictly necessary before standing straight to face Jamie. “We’re grown adults, we work together and I’d like to think we’re friends. If I want someone to stay in my home I’ll have them stay. Fuck Frank’s issue with that.

Jamie’s eyebrows had lifted so high into his forehead Claire was convinced they might become part of his hairline. “No, arguments from me, Sassenach.”

“Good.” She smirked, turning her attention to the clock on the wall before yawning. “It’s almost the witching hour as is. If you’re happy to get this lot into the car we can be on our way?”

Jamie nodded in agreement before standing and picking up the first large box, “I’ll tell you something for nothing, Sassenach. If you’d never ended up in the pastry world, you’d have made an hell of an Army Sergeant.”

——-----—–

Jamie walked tentatively into the living room as though something or someone were about to jump out at him. The apartment itself was modestly furnished; a soft grey sofa sat almost central in the room, large lined bookshelves flanking a fireplace, its mantle lined decorated with varying size framed black and white photographs. Claire’s kitchen lay to his left, one he knew would be the beating heart of the home, a laboratory of opportunity.He could smell the lingering scents of cardamom and orange, the zest blossoming in the air with each breath he took

Closing the door behind her, Claire began removing her coat and shoes, watching Jamie surveying the area. She watched him take another step forward, entirely too amused at his behavior. “You know neither me, nor my home are going to bite you.”

“I know that,” He turned back to me, cocking his eyebrow to match his sarcastic tone. “Just a bit nervous is all…” Jamie’s words fell away quietly. A small voice piped up in the back of Jamie’s mind, finishing the rest of his sentence. ‘Because you’re you and I’m in your house, sharing a space with you and I can’t help but imagine if I got to do this every day.’

“I hope you don’t mind me being a terrible hostess and not doing the whole refreshment thing, but I’m in desperate need of my bed.” Claire yawned, the words trailing off as she covered her mouth in an obvious illustration of her point.

“If you’ve a blanket and can point me to the bathroom I’ll make no complaints.” Jamie smiled tiredly, blinking his heavy eyes.

“A blanket? I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch!” Claire’s demeanour suddenly brightened with humour, “Goodness me, Jamie! I’m not that cruel!” She pointed down the corridor as though she were a flight attendant showing him the emergency exits. “The guest room is directly opposite. I’ll grab you some towels and leave them on the drawers okay?”

“Guest room? Claire ye’ve been kind enough already, ken? I’m happy wi’ the couch.”

Claire’s words escaped her mouth with the aggravation that accompanied tiredness. “Jamie, go to the bed that’s waiting for you.” She looked rather intent, her expression interrupted by another rather large, unannounced yawn.

——-----—— 

They had almost entirely avoided one another in the fifteen minutes between their arrival and getting prepared to sleep. Both had heard the other undressing, the lingering ghost of their kiss hanging in the air above them. The sound of shoes dropping to the floor, cupboard doors opening and closing and the bathroom taps running. They were painfully aware of the other, of the fizzing desire to run to the other and demand answers to questions perhaps not yet ready to be answered.

While Claire had taken the bathroom, Jamie sat on the cotton duvet tapping away at his phone to check in on Jenny and Ian.

_“Jenny’s asleep, she’s been crying a bit. I know you’ll get this fixed, I’ve plenty of faith.”_

  
The weight of guilt sat heavily in the center of Jamie’s chest, taking root beside the disappointment he knew his sister would be feeling. He hadn’t wanted to let her down and instead his idea to keep the cake at Lallybroch had brought about its destruction. Another message followed in quick succession;

_“Fergus is already here and he’s excited to meet everyone en-masse. Jamie’s started demanding ‘Hoss-Us!’ which we’ve taken to believing is ‘Horse-Fergus’. The kid doesn’t want to walk ANYWHERE.”_

A short burst of laughter escaped Jamie’s lips before he began typing again, a warmth of feeling spreading through him in anticipation of seeing his family again.

_“Glad Fergus has arrived safe and the wean is being his usual insistent self. I will get everything fixed -”_ Jamie paused, listening for a moment to something clattering behind the bathroom door, followed by the sound of an exasperated ‘Bloody hell!’ from Claire.

_“I’m bringing Claire with me – she’s offered to help. Well she less volunteered, more demanded that she came. And before you say ANYTHING, Ian Murray, I admit that having Claire come to Lallybroch is quite possibly going to kill me. DON’T tell Jenny I said that…”_

—----- 

Inside the bathroom, Claire brushed her teeth while staring at the half-finished text message on her phone.

_“I’ve got to go to the highlands for a few days to help Jamie save his sisters…-”_

The sharp feeling of unease returned to her once more, settling in amidst the feeling of mistrust in Frank that had blossomed in abundance. Ceasing brushing her teeth, she held the brush in her mouth before picking up the phone and typing out another message.

_“Frank, I’ve got some work to do for a few days. It’s a really important commission. When I get back we need to talk about our…-"_

Looking up at herself in the mirror, she paused again. Did she owe him an explanation if she was leaving? Did she owe him anything right now? He had blatantly lied to her face and cast a shadow of doubt over Jamie.

Rising out her mouth and placing her toothbrush back inside the white mirrored cabinet, Claire resolved that she owed Frank Randall nothing.

—----——

Claire exited the bathroom as Jamie opened the door of the guest bedroom, revealing each to the other. There was a moment of complete stillness between them both, taking in the intimate appearance of the other. The blooming blushes on their faces were a dead give away to both.

Claire hadn’t ever truly realised how large he really was, and felt herself unable to draw her eyes away. Jamie stood shirtless, with a peppering of golden copper hairs across his bare chest. His prominent jaw curved behind his ear, revealing cords of muscle that swooped down into broad shoulders lined with long collarbones. A pair of dark green plaid pyjama bottoms covered up to his hipbones that Claire found to be almost like a sharp arrow tempting her to look below. Jamie had the body of a warrior, the features of a fine athlete.

Jamie in turn could barely remove his glance from Claire. She stood before him in a slip of a nightgown, soft satin against her opal skin that revealed pert breasts beneath the fabric. Her hair was tied up into an unruly bun, wisps of hair falling around her face and acting as a darkened halo. He noticed the veins trailing behind her ear and into her neck, desiring to follow each with his fingertips. Jamie swallowed hard, trying not to let emotion overrun into action.

“Everything okay with the bedroom?” Claire sputtered, brushing down her nightgown and trying to casually ignore the awkwardness of the situation.

Jamie replied with a voice deep with gratitude and fatigue, “Oh aye, I can’t thank ye enough.”

Again they faltered, looking at one another with half expectancy, knowing that with a simple foot forward they could topple a boundary not ready to be felled. Hesitantly, Jamie leaned toward Claire, placing a small, lingering kiss on her cheek. His face was rough against hers with the stubble of the day, but the blossoming heat and the softness of his demeanor warmed her to the point of an overwhelming flush.

“Goodnight, Sassenach.”

“Goodnight, Jamie.” Taking the smallest of risks, Claire allowed herself the briefest of moments to reach out and place her small, fine hand on his chest before stepping away with butterflies in her stomach. With heads a buzz with possibility, both smiled and Claire closed the door behind her. Jamie slumped forward, taking a heavy breath before leaning against the door frame.

It was going to be a long two days.


	9. Lallybroch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire and Jamie arrive at Lallybroch to face the Fraser family and a cake disaster...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being wonderful and for reading, I can’t put into words how much it means. I do hope you all enjoy this chapter. There is more to come, and soon I swear!

 

CHAPTER SIX - LALLYBROCH 

 

 

In flashes through my window, I was greeted by the final stages of winter in the highlands. The melancholic soul of Scotland, vast and stark, existed here in all of its beauty.  A wonderful riot of colour dashed through the moors. Shades of yellow, sweeps of muted greens and browns signalled the ongoing wait for the warmth of spring. Cloud capped mountains and valleys miles wide lay either side of us. Patches of trees shaped wildly by harsh winds and fierce colds stood skeletal, waiting for the briefest glimpses of sunshine and warmth so they might once again come to life. The further behind you that your town or city lies, the further into the lonely wilderness you are. Where houses had clustered like ant’s mere miles away, here small cottages lay in the distance with smoking chimneys casting blooms of smoke into frigid air. Jamie had called it “God’s own country” and I was inclined to agree.

—-

 

After spending the night lying painfully aware of Jamie’s presence in my house, we had left Auchterarder just after seven am and had been on the road since. We had mutually decided early in our journey not to mention any tie I might have to Frank, to save Jenny from any heartache and myself from suspicion. I had neglected to tell Jamie that I hadn’t informed Frank as to my whereabouts. The mention of him brought about a sudden sheepishness in us both that felt uncomfortable to say the least. I didn’t want Frank Randall near Jamie again, even in thought.  
  
Conversation had turned lighter and freer once we had gotten into the wilds of our journey. His entire demeanour had brightened the further north we had driven into the untamed landscape. He’d babbled away excitedly, regaling me with tales of Lallybroch and of who I’d be meeting over the next two days.  
  
“So I find them on the couch, I clear my throat and Ian falls off the couch, goes bright purple and Jenny bollocks me for not knocking and interrupting them!” The two of us burst into delighted laughter. Jamie was proving himself the natural born storyteller as all Scots were, which was something I inherently lacked.  
  
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to look at them in the eye after that story!” I let out an exhale of breath, swallowing the rest of my giggles.  
  
“You’ll be fine! You and Ian will get on like a house on fire - yer both similar in your ways. Jenny can be a bit… standoffish with strangers but her bark is worse than her bite. She’ll love ye no doubt. Ye both have the same determined streak.”  
  
Jamie’s surety that I would get along with his sister and brother in law brought me a new feeling of happiness in our relationship. He knew that despite my walking into what essentially amounted to the home of strangers, I would still be welcomed and find friends inside.  
  
“I’m guessing they’re not in the food industry like us then?”  
  
“Far from it,” He answered, head turning to read a passing sign, “Jenny’s head of Hyndland Secondary in Glasgow – that’s why they moved down there. Every wean in that school knows there’s someone there for them. She got the brains out of the two of us. While I was pissing about at pastry school, she was getting two degrees in Civil Engineering and Architecture.  
  
My mouth fell open in awe, “Fuck, she sounds amazing!”  
  
Jamie laughed at my response, nudging me with his left elbow, “You’ll be wishing ye were friends with the other Fraser!”   
  
I awwed dramatically, heavy on my sarcasm, “Don’t worry, I won’t trade you in. What about Ian? What’s he like?”   
  
“Ian’s the kindest soul you’ll ever meet – and the opposite of Jenny. Jenny’s a hothead when she’s stressed, Ian’s completely relaxed. He’s an architect wi’ his Da. They specialise in historic restoration – so for us having Lallybroch it’s perfect.” Jamie paused for a moment, shaking his head as an Audi sped past us with an obvious ignorance of the speed limit.  
  
“My Da hired John, Ian’s Da, to do some restoration work on Lallybroch during the eighties after part of the roof collapsed. They’ve been basically family ever since. I owe John, an’ Ian everything for the work they’ve put in over the years.”  
  
“They sound wonderful, Jamie. I’m excited to meet them.” I entirely neglected to add ‘and terrified’ to the end of my sentence. I didn’t have many members of my own family, and now I knew I would be meeting what essentially amounted to Jamie’s entire family at a very personal event. The phrase ‘trial by fire’ seemed all too applicable.  
  
“You’ll probably meet wee Jamie too, their lad. He’s two, excited by everything an’ he’ll expect you to be his best friend from the moment he meets you.” I awwed loudly again, sans sarcasm and Jamie smirked.  
  
“He’s Ian’s mini me. When he was born he looked like a bald version of Ian,” Bubbling laughter started to erupt from Jamie, intensifying further as he tried to continue. “He used to pull this face,” he crumbled again, causing me to start laughing in unison at the absurdity of his attempt to imitate the expression. “– absolute double of Ian when he gets annoyed.” Taking a hand off the wheel, he wiped the tears corners of his eyes, chest still shaking with laughter.   
  
“So I’m basically going to be charmed by Frasers for the next two days am I?”  
  
“Oh w’out a doubt.” He replied cockily, before taking another sharp right that took us further into the heart of Scotland.  
  
Conversation turned to the house, accompanied by only the smallest of teasing descriptions. Lallybroch was a farm property built in the early 18th century by Jamie’s ancestor, the first Brian Fraser - the man his father had been named after. The house had been passed down between the generations, holding the Fraser name and remaining part of the Fraser clan seat in Scotland. Farming land lay around the property, and a village once owned by the Fraser family lay a half a mile down the road.   
  
When I had asked for a description of the house, he had entirely held off, half refusing to tell me anything else about the property than previously stated. “I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know, but you have to see it first. Be patient, Sassenach.” He had grinned, excitedly and so warmly that I had felt the rush of his excitement lift my own. I had seen properties around the highlands, buildings so beautiful I felt as though I could have cried. What on earth would be waiting for me when we arrived?   
  
“Fine! I give in! At least tell me a little bit of the plan for tomorrow – other than delivering the wedding cake.” I watched him for a moment, the cogs of his mind turning as he collected his words.   
  
“Every generation of Fraser,” Jamie started, “since the very conception of Lallybroch, has been married Saint Mungo’s kirk. It’s a beautiful stone building surrounded by ivy, right in the middle of Broch Morda village.. Jenny and Ian will be married in there tomorrow. It’s always meant the world to us to keep our history alive.”   
  
“That’s beautiful.” For a moment I hesitated, thinking of my own history and how little of it I knew. I’d been schooled in the histories of hundreds before me, but my own lay shrouded in the same thick mist that capped the tops of the Scottish mountains.   
  
“We’re leaving from Lallybroch and walking up to the kirk in the village, same one my parents were married in. There’ll be a piper preceding us, bridegroom walking with the maid of honour and bride with best man. Then they’ll be married and we’ll walk back again, but Jenny and Ian’ll be walking together and I’ll be walking with the maid of honour.”   
  
I peered out of the passenger side window, observing looming rain clouds overhead, “I just hope that the weather stays nice – this time of year doesn’t always bode well.” Layers of grey’s and whites tiered together like coloured meringues, creating shapes in the sky of faces, objects, animals and monsters. I felt almost a child again, conjuring images from the depths of my imagination on lazy days in countries foreign.   
  
Turning a sharp bend, Jamie looked over to me and smiled before speaking quite assuredly, “It willna rain.” He went quiet and for a moment, looking up through the windscreen to the darkening heavens. Jamie sat back in the driver’s seat and spoke with a shy confidence as though he knew someone else was listening.  
  
”They won’t let it.”

——>>>>>—–

   
After half an hour stuck behind a large tractor on a single lane, and a further twenty minutes waiting to pass a crossing herd of sheep, Jamie took several turns down a winding track road before it became straight again. I noticed an archway lying at the bottom, covered by interlocking branches that resembled long fingers grasping for one another. We had arrived, it seemed. I tried to look up through the archway but to no avail. I had missed my early opportunity to glance at Lallybroch. Jamie turned one final corner, before we were met by a small stone building that had been converted into what looked like a garage.  
  


Turning off the engine, Jamie unclipped his seatbelt and turned to face me, “We’ve got to walk a little way, we can’t take the car up to the house.”  
  
I’d assured him it was no problem, before we both exited the car and finally stretching our legs after such a long trip. My thighs ached and my posterior had gone positively numb from sitting, and the thought of a comfortable chair waiting for me in the house had me almost giddy.   
  
Jamie had already begun emptying the car, stacking up three of our boxes and plucking out our overnight bags. I’d packed as well as I could knowing I would be overnight, and had half foolishly packed something for the wedding so I could change before presenting the cake. I had been hasten to admit to myself that I half hoped that Jamie might think I looked beautiful in my outfit.   
  
“I forgot to mention, I’ll get a taxi out to Inverness tomorrow night. Probably sometime after they’ve cut the cake so I can get it served.”   
  
Jamie almost dropped the boxes he’d hoisted into his arms, his bag precariously balanced on his shoulder, “A taxi? Yer no’ leaving are ye, Sassenach?”   
  
“Well I was intending on doing so… I’m not a guest.”  
  
“Oh,” His expression changed to one of blatant disappointment. “I was half hoping ye’d like to stay – with me. For the wedding that is.”   
  
My eyes widened at his words, my hummingbird pulse returning with a flush in tow. He wanted me to stay with him for his sister’s wedding. He wanted me to be there, with him. I swallowed hard, the answer to his invitation half caught in my throat. “Are you sure?”  
  
“I want ye here, Claire.” Jamie shyly nudged my hand with his own, the tone of his voice overwhelmingly sincere and almost desperate.   
  
All at once my face was taken over with a shy grin, dimples acting like dashes on exclamation points. “Okay, I’ll stay.”   
  
“Brilliant,”  He hoisted the boxes back up, filled with pleasure at my agreement, “Now come on lass – if ye keep an eye out straight ahead you’ll see the house soon.”   
  
I picked up my bag from the dusty, dry ground and slung it across my shoulder before closing the boot of the car behind us. I heard the click of the lock behind me as we began walking down the path to the house, each side flanked by verdant grass and white grain flowers.   
  
We’d finally approached the archway and in my eagerness I rushed ahead only to stop dead entirely.    
  
Lallybroch lay before me at the bottom of a long path, two tall and flat chimneys cast plumes of white smoke into the sky above it. My heart suddenly filled, sitting heavily in my throat with stinging tears pricking my eyes.   
  
“Welcome to Lallybroch, Claire.”  
  
Lallybroch greeted me like a great love, with a welcome that said ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’  
  
Sitting against the skyline, Lallybroch stood a tall stone building with two sloping roofs and a dozen rectangular windows that sat looking out into the pale green fields before it. A long wall sat beside it, another archway acting as a window into the courtyard of the property. The house was simply huge, a feat of 18th century building work. It looked over me and the lands around it as an almost guarding entity, proudly ensuring its safety and prosperity.   
  
I was overwhelmed, completely and entirely. I felt utterly ridiculous in my reaction to this building, to this place but I could barely help myself. I felt myself take Jamie’s hand in the same way I had taken hold of Uncle Lamb’s when I had been scared or excited, entirely too overwhelmed to register an appropriate response. He squeezed it in return, and blissful comfort erupted from his touch.   
  
A small group of dogs came rushing out of a second archway that stood beside the building, their excited howls and barking shattering the quietness of the area. Not a moment later a tall man, with fair brown hair and a soft, kind face emerged hollering after the hounds.   
  
“Ian!“ Jamie shouted toward him, waving a free hand.   
  
An immediate recognition crossed Ian’s face followed by a wave and a holler of, "Took your time!"   
  
Ian walked with a slightly off step, my curiosity immediately sated by a short flash of a steel prosthetic beneath his trouser leg.   
  
"I had to get some supplies!” Jamie motioned to the boxes he had placed by our feet. “And got caught behind some bastard sheep!”   
  
They clapped one another on the back with an undeniable fondness, hugging one another briefly. I noticed Ian was the smaller of the two and far less imposing than Jamie. He turned to me, his smile genuinely sweet that left me flushed with an unexpected warmth.   
  
“As my brother in law to be hasn’t introduced us yet, I’m Ian Murray, the groom.” Ian stuck out his hand, shaking mine firmly in his.   
  
“Claire Beauchamp, the Patissier. I’m here to help with the cake madness."   
  
"Pleasure to meet you, Claire. The clan are all inside sorting out an early lunch. We weren’t sure what time you’d arrive but there’s plenty for you both.” He offered to take one of the boxes from Jamie who seemed to gladly pass over some of the weight he’d been carrying. “After you, Claire.” Ian nodded me forward, breaking me from my distracted awe. 

——>>>>>—–

 

Approaching the house itself had felt almost like I was reliving a moment I’d had a thousand times before. As if in some other life I had known this place and it had known me.  
  
The dogs came rushing by my ankles, running into a field behind the house and the footsteps of Jamie and Ian soon followed across the cobbled courtyard. Small flowering bushes lay at either side of the steps, lined with wicker fencing. Aged wooden benches, from times long past sat under the window panes for weary travelers or for long nights under cloudless skies.  
  
The door into the house was open, overhead a large stone like crest guarded the door, weathered from its years of life. I turned to Jamie and Ian, ready to comment on the beauty of the house but in a flash, a boy’s voice came from the doorway.   
  
“Da!”   
  
I half expected a small child, wandering with the charming wobbliness of toddler legs, to appear at the door flanked by another adult. Instead, a boy revealed himself, entirely too old to be Jenny’s son. In the moments that followed, everything felt almost dreamlike, as though I was watching a scene behind glass or through a screen, observing not participating.   
  
“Da!” The boy rushed down the steps and into Jamie’s embrace, his large arms wrapping tightly around the figure, clapping him on the back in greeting.   
  
“Fergus lad!”   
  
I stood back from the scene, heart racing as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. A boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old with a head of curled hair and skin as fair as my own had his arms around Jamie’s waist. A thousand questions and then some rushed through my head before falling on a single thought; Jamie hadn’t said a word.   
  
“Well, Fergus my lad, this is Claire Beauchamp. We’re competing in the chocolatier competition I told you about, ken? Claire, this is Fergus. Frenchman, pain in the backside and honorary Commis chef of Broch Morda.” I snapped out of her reverie to see two very pleased, expectant faces. Fergus looked uncannily like a photograph of Uncle Lamb at his age. I remembered the image, burned into my memory from years ago. The same expression on their faces, the same wild hair and the same mischievous curiosity emanating from their being.   
  
Fergus stepped forward toward me and I stuck out my hand to shake his, my fingers cold with nerves. With charm far beyond his years, he greeted me, “Enchanté, Madame.”   
  
I could hardly stop myself from smiling in reply, “Tout le plaisir et pour moi, Fergus.”   
  
Fergus looked impossibly impressed with his mouth gaping, “She does speak French!” I couldn’t help but turn to catch Jamie’s eye in surprise. He’d told Fergus about me, and in some detail.   
  
“Aye – I told ye she could! Thinkin’ yer own Da a liar!” Jamie pointed down to the boxes, nodding to Fergus before asking him to assist in their moving. Fergus picked up the smaller of the boxes, walking up the steps and back into the household.   
  
With almost no second thought I followed him, welcoming myself into Jamie’s home and straight into the dark gaze of his sister, Jenny.  
  


——>>>>>—–

Jenny Fraser eyed me with the same look that most mothers give the partner of their child. Suspicion, wonder and a demand to know exactly what your intentions are. The feeling was not lost on me; in this circumstance, I was the woman Jamie Fraser was bringing home to meet his family. It just so happened I was there to bake a cake, not be evaluated as potential marriage material.   
  
Her hair was worn up in a ponytail, dark hair framing an elegant face. Amber eyes sat beneath arched brows, and sharp cheekbones cut to a bow shaped mouth. She looked the opposite of Jamie entirely. I wondered which parent she resembled more.   
  
I had already begun speaking before I had thought about how I would introduce myself to her. My voice erupted at least ten decibels higher than usual and pitched with nervousness, “Oh! Hello! You must be Jenny, I’m Claire.”   
  
“Aye, I ken who ye are.” Jenny’s voice came out clear and crisp, as authoritative as one would expect from a head mistress.   
  
I’d stepped into what I assumed was the living room, minus any form of modern technology. The house looked as though we had stepped into a time capsule, still furnished with so many of the original furnishings. The faint smell of burning wood drifted through the air of the house, accompanied by the sweet and pleasant smell of lavender flowers. I marveled at the stairwell that wrapped around the back of a large stone fireplace, dark carved banisters lined like soldiers up and up to the next level of the house.   
  
Two soft grey couches sat beside the hearth of the fireplace, which sat framed by a stone mantle and flanked by two dark wood chairs, clearly from no earlier than the 19th century.  I could imagine the dogs laying by the fireplace, kept from the lick of the crackling flames by a large black fireguard.   
  
Pictures littered the top of the mantle in frames new and old; of figures of the past and the present all collected together. I felt an almost immediate jealousy at the history that lay on the mantle alone. The house in its entirety was essentially a scrapbook of the Fraser’s; they lived and breathed in the very essence of the building.   
  
“Jenny!” Jamie’s voice came from behind me as he brushed past quickly to embrace his sister.  Jenny’s expression broke quickly, her eyes lighting with an almost glee at seeing him again. She was noticeably smaller than myself, but even smaller in Jamie’s arms. Her hands touched the middle of his shoulders, his entire body almost engulfing her small frame.   
  
“I’m sorry it took so long, got caught behind a tractor an’ a frigging herd from a few farms over.” He kissed her cheek, hugging her again before letting her step out of his arms. I remained standing behind him feeling the gooseberry in the situation.   
  
“No bother, yer here now.” Jenny’s voice softened, as did her stance. While her back remained straight, almost corseted, her shoulders and arms became free – as though a weight had shifted.   
  
Ian and Fergus stood beside the three of us, suddenly all stripped of words of welcome. I looked down at the floor, noting the carpets worn with the wear of generations past. Were these the originals? I wondered, or reproductions of work long gone?   
  
“So… the cake went to high hell.” Jamie said, breaking the silence in the room.   
  
“Aye, that’s one way of saying.” Jenny replied sharply, “Ye should see the state of the thing… I dinna ken what happened…” Her voice trailed off quietly.   
  
I spoke up, my mouth acting once again before my mind, “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it Jenny. I’ve already promised Jamie that I will.”  
  
Jenny looked at me with an amusement that made me feel uneasy, as though she knew all too well everything that was going to come out of my mouth before I’d even said it.   
  
Ian stepped into the conversation, his tone easy and demeanor equally so. “Jamie said so. I’m grateful, Claire. For yer help. We can arrange to pay ye after the wedding, it’s just –“   
  
“Pay?” My eyes pinned to him, then to Jenny’s face. I’d suddenly realised they had prepared themselves for a second bill, and an even larger one from someone like me. “No, no not at all! Jenny, Ian – no.” I tripped over my words as though I was walking with undone laces. “This is a gift. It’s help and hopefully a balm on a disaster!”   
  
Jenny and Ian looked at one another with the same expression of shock. I could see an conversation passing between the two of them, words unspoken but clearly understood.   
  
Finally Jenny started, and for a moment the prickly demeanor fell away revealing a softness I was sure would only return if we became friends. “We can’t repay ye for the kindness, really. But ye are welcome to stay for the wedding if Jamie hasn’t already asked.”   
  
“I would be honoured to attend, thank you.”   
  
Fergus took the opportunity to ask Jenny if he wanted him to wake Jamie the younger for lunch. With a quick nod and a thank you, off he scurried. The elder Jamie took the opportunity to take me and the cases downstairs, removing them from the hallway and the tiny curious hands of his nephew.   
  
We took our leave, entering the hallway once more and began ascending a stone staircase down into the kitchen, arms laden. While I was sure the stairwell had once been cold, a warmth emanated from the stone. I wanted to trail my fingers down the walls, feeling Lallybroch beneath my fingers just to check that the building wasn’t vibrating with life.   
  
“We’ve got lunch in the dining room – nothing too exceptional. Join us whenever yer ready.” Ian called after us, his voice echoing off the walls.   
  
“Thanks! Willna be long, start wi’out us!” Jamie shouted back and I at once suddenly remembered being seven years old in a sea cave calling my name out and hearing the stones shout it right back.   
  


——>>>>>—–

I reached the last step and a kitchen straight out of architecture and design weekly greeted me. Half expecting it to be lit mainly by artificial lighting, I was pleasantly surprised to find high arched ceilings painted a soft cream colour. Several large rectangular windows had been cut into the walls, deep sills sitting below them with various pots of posy flowers and fresh herbs growing. A large white porcelain farmhouse sink sat beneath the third window, ornate chrome taps sitting fixed into the top of it. It looked like the type of sink a small child could have bathed in at some point in its history.  
  
The original features of the kitchen had combined with the contemporary. A large fireplace was set into the right wall, at least five feet deep and equally as high, with the marks of inhabitants past scorched into the back of it. As with the fireplace in the living room, two large, oak cabinets flanked each side. Vases of various shapes and sizes stood like small soldiers behind the glass, each decorated with various floral patterns and scenes.  
  
In the more contemporary parts of the kitchen, new countertops and drawers had been fitted in a similar oak to the original; a soft grey slate countertop framing cream, farmhouse cabinets and drawers. My eyes were immediately drawn to a black cast iron Aga that sat housed against the left wall like the fiery heart of the kitchen. I wondered how old it was, how many people had used it over its lifetime in Lallybroch.  
  
Jamie had already begun unboxing the boxes of equipment and ingredients, littering the countertops haphazardly. I stepped into the room properly, putting my own box beside his. Without any real delicacy, the question spinning around my mind came pouring out of my mouth.   
  
“You have a son?” Jamie immediately stiffened and I could tell I had caught him entirely off guard. Our words suddenly came out fast, interrupting the other.   
  
“I do - ”   
  
“But you didn’t -”   
  
“- really know where to drop it into conversation.” He looked up at me with a peculiar, unreadable look of what seemed to be guilt at being caught out.  
  
“Hello I’m Jamie, I’m 27. I’m a Pastry Chef and I have a son. That’s all it would’ve taken.” I answered tersely. It seemed as plain as day, something easy to explain but it was becoming very apparent that was not the case.   
  
“It’s just a bit of an explanation… Well I mean it’s not -” Jamie sighed, taking a moment to find his voice, “Fergus isn’t my son biologically. I’m in the middle of adopting him.”   
  
“Oh.” I paused, “Fuck. I’m sorry I shouldn’t -” My voice trailed off, heavy with my own guilt in half jumping to a conclusion.   
  
Jamie flitted his hand in the air, dismissing my apology. “It’s fine, Sassenach. I fully intended on telling you - I just wanted to wait a little bit.”   
  
We continued unboxing the items; stacking ingredient boxes and tupperware in an orderly fashion. In the midst of our task I had fallen away for a moment, taking in the space around us. This would do nicely, I thought. I could definitely manage to bake a cake in here, and set up stations where I would need them. The creation of the cake would be an arduous task in the least, but with a bit of hope and a lot of time management on our side, we could deliver Jenny and Ian’s wedding cake without fail.   
  
As Jamie placed the last box into a small storage cupboard I hadn’t noticed, I heard myself ask if I might ask a question. Jamie nodded, half smiling at me before returning to stand by me, leaning against the countertop.   
  
“Did you think I would think differently of you if I knew you were a single father?”   
  
The question was loaded and I knew it. He looked down at the stone floor, gathering an answer before letting out something like a sigh. “Honestly? Yes. People find out, then there’s this look of pity followed by comments about how good a person I am and how strong… It’s strange.”   
  
“You know I wouldn’t. I just wasn’t expecting it.” I moved to stand directly beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder. I eyed my nails, a returning urge to start biting them again out of nervousness. “How did he end up at Broch Morda?” Jamie’s chest lifted as he exhaled a short laugh before he crossed his arms across his chest. I knew I was pushing it with my questioning, but my own latent curiosity refused to stop my mouth.   
  
“You mean how did he end up with me?” He spoke low, mouth turned up a fraction of an inch.  
  
“He’s a student at Jenny’s school. She found out he’s very adept with cookery after one of the teachers confessed he was staying behind to use the ovens in the school food labs. Jenny asked his foster carer if he might be interested in coming to the restaurant twice a week. That started six months ago and he’s still here.”  
  
I responded with an elated jolt, my eyes wide and an accompanying grin. Fergus was one of us; sugar ran through his veins just as it did with Jamie and I.   
  
“He came rushing in here like a bull in a China shop demanding to know everything. He started relying on me more, we started talking more about school and pastry… Everyday I just wanted to make sure he was okay, ken?” I nodded, willing him to continue talking about Fergus. “That he was happy, and thriving… He didn’t have a soul in the world – not one. He’s been carted from pillar to post his entire life. I wanted him to know that there was a family for him if he wanted it, one who loved him and wanted him to stay.”   
  
Jamie uncrossed his arms and let them hang, shifting on her back foot to reposition himself. He moved as though a weight had moved; that revealing this truth had given us the opportunity to grow further together. I felt an overwhelming feeling of being more attached to Jamie, one that was entirely more wonderful. He trusted me to know about his son, more so to be introduced to him.  
  
A rather blissful haze felt as though it had fallen over the kitchen. We stood quietly, enjoying the silence around us for a moment longer before Jamie asked if I wanted to check out the fuck up that was the Glasgow bakery cake. I’d agreed, knowing that we could waste little time for the rest of the day. Moving to the farmhouse door that sat in the very right hand corner of the kitchen, Jamie pulled it open. The door shuddered under its own weight, making a dull scraping noise across the floor.   
  
I couldn’t help but think to myself as I stepped into the chilled air once again, “They broke the mold when they made you James Fraser.

——>>>>>—–  
  


“What in God’s name did they do to this thing?! Drop it?!”  
  
When Jamie had said that the cake was fucked, I had assumed it would be bad. I had assumed that perhaps I might be able to salvage something, or at least get an idea of what had come before so I could recreate a version of it. Catastrophe seemed more appropriate. Fucking mess. Disaster.   
  
“Did they even use dowels?! Better yet do they even know how to make a fucking cake last longer than two seconds?!” Jamie stood assessing the damage while I made a series of exasperated noises, followed by several strings of curse words. “Everything’s just slipped and collapsed! I mean fucking hell! Did they pay for this?! If they did I’m going to demand their money back for them!”   
  
What had been a five-tier cake now looked as though it had been dropped. The fondant covering each tier had obviously sagged and slipped entirely, leaving thick creases and cracks along the sides of each cake. Indeed, it became very apparent that no thought had been taken into supporting each of the tiers as it had collapsed under its own weight. The result was a wreck, an utter calamity. Something that could not be rescued, even by two professional Patissiers.   
  
Jamie slumped behind me onto a short bench that sat against the brick wall behind us, “It looks nothing like it.” I turned to find him looking down, rubbing the scar on his hand in nervous circular motions.   
  
“It looks nothing like what?” I inquired, my tone a little short.   
  
“The cake is verra specific, Sassenach.” Jamie ran his fingers through his hair, then rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “It’s my Mam and Da’s wedding cake.” He’d looked up at me, ashen faced and despondent and the feeling of utter misery took hold of me in its vice grip. My heart fell with a deep thud into my stomach.   
  
I found myself falling to the seat, perching myself beside him as the weight of the situation caught up to me. Jenny had replicated her parents wedding cake as an ode to them on her wedding day. She had wanted to keep our history alive, that’s what Jamie had said. She had wanted to have her parents there, even in the details of her wedding. The disaster befalling the cake would be salt to an already gaping wound.   
  
“Have you got the photographs?” My words came slow and steady, but felt as tight in my throat as a pulled wire.   
  
“Aye – luckily. Mam asked for a few at their wedding. Smart woman my Mam.” His voice lay heavy with the same echo mine took discussing my own mother; speaking of a woman so wonderful taken greedily away with both hands, leaving behind only clouded memories. “The company in Glasgow, they said they could mimic it but a lot of the detail might be missing. Apparently, the photographs weren’t clear enough.” Jamie scoffed, dismissing the half-hearted excuses of the bakers in question.   
  
“If you give me whatever you have, I’ll do the best I can. For Jenny and Ian. For them.” I was determined, driven by a desire I hadn’t ever experienced to ensure that I could fulfill this dream. Any fault or failure this time would add to an existing rage and heartache at the first bakery disaster. I couldn’t do that to Jenny or Ian, nor could I inflict that on him. Our hands found one another’s, clasped tightly as though to anchor ourselves to one another. Order would prevail over chaos.  
  
The moment, however, was interrupted by Fergus’ call, his melodic accent carried loudly across the winds, “Da! Aunt Jenny said if you don’t hurry she’ll skelp you!”   
  
Jamie sighed before patting my hand with his other and standing to his feet, pulling me up behind him.   
  
“The clan awaits, Sassenach.”   
  
Leaving the old stable behind us, Jamie walked ahead of me and back into the house, touching the stone of the doorframe as he entered. I walked leisurely behind him, taking the first few steps toward the welcoming warmth of Lallybroch before delaying for a moment longer. The clouds rolled overhead and a soft wind washed over me, and through the courtyard.   
  
Mirroring Jamie’s earlier gesture, I looked to the space above me and spoke in an almost whisper before finally re-entering the house,   
  
“A little good favour is all I ask of you.”

  
————————–>>>>>>>>>>>>>>———————-

CHAPTER SIX END


	10. Inquisitive Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire and Jamie settle into lunch at Lallybroch with a side order of questioning...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient between chapters! This chapter in particular follows directly with chapter six. Chapter seven will be uploaded shortly!

I’d entered the dining room with Jamie and was met with a space straight out of an eighteenth century painting. Long tapestries, softly faded by time and light hung from dark wood panels across all sides of the room. I could make out patterns of flora and fauna that reminded me of William Morris-esque patterns. The still blooming scent of lavender flowers drifted sweetly through the air as though their scent drifted from the delicate blossoms within the tapestries. A dark, wooden rectangular table with high backed seats sat dead center of the room, with a chandelier hanging dead center over the table. It looked almost the original, but the tell tale signs of small wires showed that modernity had won over burning candles.

Photographs sat above another fireplace, faces of those long past and those present smiling from beneath the glass. Antique candlesticks sat at either end of the mantle held long cream candles that had been decoratively cut to reveal small roses in the wax. I half hoped they might still be used in this room to bring back echoes of past uses.

Fergus entered behind us not a moment later, wee Jamie in tow, his face plastered with glee as he toddled toward his waiting mother. However, upon noticing the stranger in the room, namely me, his legs suddenly stilled. He stood in-front of me with his head tipped to the side and a look of ‘and who are you?’ across his face. As he stared, I realized just how much he did actually look like a miniature version of his father. Ian’s eyes were looking back at me, but the slanted shape was the same as Jamie’s, as was his knife-blade nose. The softness of his small face would obviously change with age, but I was sure there would remain the same softness of face his father had.

I knelt down to his level so I might avoid scaring him and was met with a look of curious confusion. “Hello, Jamie.” I said softly. His face contorted with an expression of shock in realising that I knew his name, but he clearly didn’t know who I was.

A long owl-like “hoo” noise came from his little mouth, throwing me into a short giggle at his sweet attempt. It seemed he had inherited the noise that went alongside his namesakes owl-like winking.

“I’m Claire.” Wee Jamie stepped forward, his small feet trailing off the wooden floor beneath him.

“Care?” I nodded, smiling back at his milk-toothed grin. The rest of his face lit up as he half shouted an excited “Hiya!” before launching himself into my arms to give me a squeeze of newly found affection.

I hadn’t had the opportunity to interact with a huge number of children, so any interaction caught me a little off guard. He was small, soft and warm in my arms, his small back almost taken over entirely by the width of my hands. I was pleased that he had greeted me favourably, having had prior experiences of screaming children, horrified by meeting a complete stranger.

After a few moments, I’d half expected him to let go before rushing off toward his Uncle or parents, babbling words of excitement. Instead, he placed his hands on my thighs and pushed down, grinning at me with a toothy smile. He’d decided, as Jamie said, that we were now best friends and he wanted me to pick him up.

“Jamie, come on.” Ian started to make for his son but the loud protests that followed indicated he wasn’t going anywhere that didn’t involve being held by me.

“It’s okay, Ian. I can bring him over.” Placing my hands around his back and under his bottom, I scooped him up into my arms, Jamie making a squeal of delight. As we walked he placed his hands on either side of my face, pursing my lips. I blew a raspberry, letting out a wet noise that made Jamie squeal even louder. His laughter had his body shaking in my arms and was entirely too infectious, leaving us all laughing alongside him.

Without any major struggling, I managed to sit wee Jamie into his highchair. His legs dangled through the bottom, kicking gleefully as he chatted away to himself. This glee, however, was short lived as the moment I moved to sit away from him, his horror at my action became very apparent.

“No Care!” His little voice wobbled before the accompanying pet lip-stuck so far out it could have tripped someone over. “Care!”

Ian had moved to try to distract him but I shook my head, dismissing his more than likely fruitless effort. “Okay, okay! I’ll sit beside you!” Pulling out the chair beside him brought him instant cheer, quite happy with himself that he had gotten his own way in the matter.

My Jamie rather unceremoniously dropped into the seat beside mine, huffing out a breath as he pulled in his chair. He was almost as tall as the back of the chair, his red mop sticking out over the top of it. “Looks as though you’ve a new best friend, Sassenach.” he joked, picking up and placing a linen napkin across his lap.

“Well he’s far sweeter, charming and better looking than that other Jamie…” I teased, nudging my Jamie with the point of my elbow and wrinkling my nose at him.

Grabbing his side he gaped dramatically, a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. “Ye injure me, woman!”

As I was about to retort with another jibe, Jenny quickly interrupted our misbehaving.

“Brother, if ye’d do the honours?” Jenny asked, grasping her hands together in prayer. She sounded ever the teacher, and I immediately felt as though I was a child sitting at dinners with friends and acquaintances of Uncle Lamb being told to behave myself or be sent upstairs.

He immediately mirrored her and I followed suit, eyes closing in reverence. As our blessing was spoken, however, the tempting aroma of sweet tomatoes and fragrant basil caught me with a pang of hunger, and I found myself entirely too tempted by it to resist further.

I looked with one eye cracked open to peer into the white porcelain tureen that sat in the middle of the table, bowls stacked beside it. A pool of scarlet red soup lay steaming in the tureen, swirled with lashings of thick cream and sprinkling of virescent basil leaves floating atop. Bannocks, sliced into thick triangular scones and doorstop slices of a well-fired loaf sat soldier-like on wooden serving boards. A meal as warm, wholesome and homely as Lallybroch itself.

“…through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”

A chorus of ‘Amen’ echoed around the dining room before Ian stood and began generously serving the soup, ladling the thickly textured concoction into porcelain bowls before handing them to each of us in a scene that felt ever so slightly reminiscent of ‘Oliver’. Jamie leant across the table and picked up several bannock scones, distributing them between himself and Fergus before picking up the long plate to allow me my pick at the loaves. Jenny had left and re-entered the room without my noticing, holding a small sectioned plate with crustless sandwiches for wee Jamie. She took a seat beside him, thanking Ian for her share of the soup and demanding her brother hurry up with the plate. Wee Jamie had long forgotten me, too interested in his sandwiches and the sweet smiles and words of his mother and Fergus was far too engaged with eating his weight in bannocks to even begin participating in any semblance of conversation.

I skimmed the top of the scarlet liquid before raising the utensil to my mouth. The blissful warmth of the soup trickled over my taste-buds and down my throat. It was rich and creamy; a savoury-seasoned stock had been used, thickened with cream and lashings of fragrant olive oil, sweet basil and garlic. Picking up a piece of the well fired loaf, I bit into it sans butter, tearing it between my teeth and chewing down on the crust. The rough texture was terribly satisfying in its crunch, the pillow like softness of the white of the loaf was too delicious to even consider slathering with softened butter.

Before I had even had the chance to take another taste of the soup or bread, Jenny spoke up with authority, “So how long have ye been a chef, Claire?”

I looked over to her and felt the same feeling I had when I had been interviewed for my first kitchen position, “I’ve been cooking since I was eleven, professionally since the age of twenty. So around eight or nine years? I’ve been with Chef Fairlie in Gleneagles for four of those years.”

“Impressive.” She uttered, taking another mouthful of soup.

I had thought her question her first and last, continuing with my own lunch. With each mouthful of soup, a new flavour burst forth and I reminded myself that I should ask for the recipe for it. As I’d taken another bite of soup dipped bread, Jenny started again, her voice measured and soft.

“And where exactly did you go to pastry school? Jamie studied with the best in Paris and at the Royal Academy of Culinary Arts.”

I looked up from my soup and saw her staring directly at me. Jamie shifted in his chair uncomfortably, in the same way a child wishes their parent to stop discussing them with another parent in the school yard. “I trained in London at Le Cordon Bleu, and I apprenticed under Ruth Hinks.” I replied coolly, smiling at the end of my answer in the hopes that the questioning might cease.

I heard Jamie put down his spoon into his soup, the a high clink of metal onto side of the bowl. “She trained with Vianne Raymond too. Verra high profile, one of the best people in the whole patisserie world.” He spoke with admiration and I could barely stop myself from hiding a small smile.

All went quiet again for a moment before Jenny launched into what could only be described as an inquisition; did I always want to work in patisserie?; was I top of my class because Jamie had been top of his class?; had I experience with wedding cakes? Had I competed professionally before?

It had become distinctly apparent that Jenny Fraser was evaluating me on not only my professional standing, but as to whether or not I was good enough to be spending as much time with Jamie - professionally or not.

The feeling of being the girlfriend returned again, rearing its head with a laugh and a suffocating awkwardness. I’d watched Jamie pale further with each question, his attempts at changing the subject to the wedding, to Fergus or wee Jamie, even to Ian and his current work projects, culminating in failure. Jenny, however, was having none of it. I did have to give her her due. When she wanted to work a person out, she didn’t do it half-heartedly. I half admired her for it, half felt almost terrified at the concept of having to make a cake for this woman.

“Jenny wi’ ye leave her be! Stop interrogating her!” Jamie finally broke his somewhat polite silence with a growl, his jaw tensed under his words.

I would have sworn that Jenny’s eyes were glowing under her brows, that her dark irises had in fact begun to burn into Jamie’s own out of horror and annoyance at his announcement.

“I am doin’ no such thing, _James_. I just want to get to know Claire, no crime in that.” Jenny’s voice stressed Jamie’s given name in the same way a parent subtly warns their child that if they continued to argue with them, they’d get a very thorough explanation as to why you shouldn’t argue with those older and wiser than you.

“ _Janet_ ,” Jamie spoke in a matching tone, shifting in his chair in order to sit a little more upright. Without thinking, I reached under the table and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. I hoped to distract him, or to at least signal that he needed to stop before Jenny lost her temper. The situation was already fraught with the stress of the impending nuptials, arguments the day before - and in front of children, would do none of us any good. Especially Jenny. He didn’t respond initially, so I squeezed his hand again tighter. Neither broke the other’s gaze, watching one another like lions warring over a carcass.

A sudden realisation hit that this scene, Jenny and Jamie butting heads, it wasn’t that unusual. Ian sat across the table continuing to entertain wee Jamie with smiles and pieces of apple, entirely unphased. Fergus too was obliviously playing on an iPad he’d smuggled into the room, tapping away at the screen with his tongue sticking out in concentration.

I squeezed his hand for a third time, digging my thumbnail into the fat of his palm. Finally, he squeezed back, looking at me with blazing eyes that quickly died down to ones half sorry for the questioning. “Leave her be and stop it.”

Jenny eyed me, breaking her warring gaze with Jamie. I doubted she would acquiesce to his request. “If ye have a problem, _James_ , I suggest you take it away from the table.” Jenny arched her eyebrow at her brother indignantly. It was a weaponised sentence, one meant to cause annoyance and aggravation. Above all else, to get your own way. I shifted in my seat to see Jamie rubbing the scar on his hand out of annoyance. He huffed out a heavy breath before standing suddenly, pushing back his chair with such force that it scraped along the floor with a resounding screech.

“I’ll be having a look for those photos for ye, Claire. I’ll meet ye in the kitchen in a wee while.” Jamie looked at me, eyes soft with apology before gazing at his sister with warning as he exited the room. I watched as he left the room, wishing he would just come back to the table - or at least ask me to assist him. He did neither.

Two thoughts crossed my mind in the minute that followed; Jamie was actually a petulant, argumentative sod of a five year old, and when I next clapped eyes on him I might murder him.

Jenny had resumed eating, completely unperturbed by the miniature outburst between herself and her brother. For all intent and purpose, she’d gotten what she wanted. Jamie had left in a huff after she had seemingly won the argument and she’d effectively interrogated me as much as she thought necessary - for the moment at least.

It was Ian who broke the strange reverie I’d found myself in, his voice gentle and a calming balm to the atmosphere.

“So, Claire,” He began softly, “have ye spent much time in the highlands?”

“Oh,” I hesitated, nervously laughing. “No, I haven’t. Though I’m enjoying myself so far.”

_I think…_


	11. A Wedding Takes Place - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the preparations begin for a night of baking under pressure, will our bakers crack or rise to the occasion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness me it's been an age! To keep this short and sweet, yes it’s been a while, yes I am really sorry, and yes this is only part ONE. Chapter seven is approximately 20′000 words long and is going to be posted in parts so stay tuned!

After the inquisition that had been lunch with the Fraser/Murray family, I had excused myself to the kitchen to prepare for the mammoth task ahead of Jamie and I that evening. I’d been greeted fondly and warmly by the kitchen again, the sweetly scented heart of Lallybroch. The afternoon sunshine cast a brilliant orange glow across the floors and countertops, the windows like a second kitchen hearth. I was entirely in my own company with only the chaos of Tupperware boxes and cake pans for company.

I hadn’t seen Jamie since he’d left me in the dining room. Silly git was likely to be off sulking somewhere in the house and attempting to find the reference pictures we needed with his lip stuck out. I wanted to shout at him for it, for making me feel so absolutely exposed to questioning. In fact, I was sure that at some point during the evenings work I would snap at him – though I would try to hold my tongue to save encouraging the atmosphere that had already befallen the house.

I sighed, heartily and wandered to the kit we had half-heartedly sorted. Ideas were whirring around my mind and I hoped that everything I would need for the project would be here. Finding a bakery supplier in the middle of the highlands seemed unlikely to say the very least. Sifting through everything was easy enough; sorting bottles from boxes, prepared from raw, until after almost an hour of inventory checking and planning, I had a plan and some semblance of a workspace.

Keeping Jenny’s desire to have her wedding side on the more traditional, I knew I would need conventional cake flavours as opposed to ‘wilder’ tastes. We would work with tastes native to the land, things that were a nod to Scotland. There would be the necessity of doubling up on pans, I’d realised, though it wasn’t anything that I hadn’t had to do before. I was pleased I’d had the foresight to bring an inordinately huge amount of modelling chocolate with us to save time. While some called it cheating, it would save us an effort and a half – an incredibly time consuming one at that. Casting chocolate in moulds could help to produce some of the most elegant work from a Patissier, but one false move could cause you a dozen problems. With a deadline like ours, I was sure that the secret would be kept between Jamie and myself, and that the pastry Gods might forgive me.

My reverie was sharply broken by Jamie’s thunderous footsteps down the stairs and into the kitchen, his voice echoing off the stone; “Sassenach! Got the photographs for ye!” I turned to look at him, spotting the album of photographs clutched against his chest. He placed the book down with a thud, before looking up at me.

“Decided to come back then?” I asked, my voice a little more sarcastic and harsh than I had intended. He looked down at his shoes and I was suddenly reminded of a small child being chided by a parent.

“I shouldn’t have left ye, and for that I’m sorry. But if I hadn’t have left that room I’d probably have strangled Jenny.” I walked over to him keeping my gazed pinned on his face. Words were bubbling that I could barely form into a coherent sentence, leaving me with the option of shaking my head with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, Sassenach.”

I held my tongue for a moment longer before finally breaking my own imposed silence; “Don’t walk out on me like that again. It’s not fair and it was a rotten trick.”

He looked at me with all the hope of a forgive partner, placed his long plaid shirted arm around my back and squeezed me close. “I willna do it again.”

I leant into him for a moment before reaching out my hand to open the cover of the album. We were greeted by an invitation to the wedding of Brian Fraser and Ellen MacKenzie dated to 1983. Yellowed a little from time, the paper was held in small corners at each side with a rather traditional font inviting an unnamed guest to their wedding. Flowers were embossed into the paper stock, draped across the top and bottom of the page.

We went through the album slowly, Jamie pointing out faces amidst crowds in the first few pages. Friends and relatives present and long passed greeted us with smiling faces, their outfits each as vibrant as the next – a sharp reminder of the clothing worn in the decade that taste had seemingly forgotten. I’d been mid laugh the moment Jamie had finally revealed a portrait of Ellen and Brian, one which had been quickly swallowed in a gasp of awe. Ellen MacKenzie looked so beautiful I had been robbed of words. Dressed in white, her long train lay out against the carpet around her, decorated with what looked to be hundreds of pearls. The neck had been V cut, elongating a neck decorated with a string of pearls. She held a traditional rose bouquet in her hands, face framed with the same fiery red hair that Jamie himself had. Brian in turn looked handsome to boot; dressed in his tartan with a grin of pride across his face. She looked like him, I realised. Or he looked like her. Same hair, same smile and softness. He’d gotten his father’s sharpness; the same slanted eyes and sharp nose. Their shared height too was equally as apparent, Brian standing at least six feet two.

“She’s so beautiful.” I whispered, my fingers trailing over her photograph. I stared so intently at her, trying to see every feature of her face and gown. Jamie stood quietly staring at the portrait of his mother, one I was sure he was familiar with.

“Ye ken that they met and got engaged the same week?”

I half laughed, my eyebrows raised in surprise, “Really? They were that sure?”

The light of storytelling fell over him and he began grinning like the cat who’d gotten the cream. “Oh aye,” He looked back to their photograph, before turning his gaze back to me. “My Da always said the moment he saw her there wouldn’t be anyone else. So, they met, went on one date and he asked her to marry him. The actual wedding was maybe a month later?”

I could hardly believe such a tale, but seeing their expressions in their wedding photographs only added to the truth. 

“Thirty years together and I’ve never seen any two people love one another more.” The distance returned to Jamie’s voice and the desire to take him into my arms and hold him came back. His entire world was his family. Knowing that fact only made finding out that after thirty years together, Brian and Ellen Fraser had been taken from their family too early, it made the whole event entirely more heartbreaking. 

He continued flicking through the pages of the album, describing the event as had been told to him in detail, with each laugh and small footnote given ample time. Finally, after skipping a dozen pages of faces, the cake revealed itself.

Five cakes stacked in various sized tiers; three split by a supporting middle stand and the final two larger cakes. Ivory in colour decorated with roses, petals and small forget-me-not blossoms, with each page turned the intricate and rather breath-taking nature of the design revealed itself only further. Flowers adorned each layer in various styles; crafted as whole blooms, made flat into small flowing patterns or iced onto the fondant directly. Draped icing hung perfectly in chandelier type patterns from the second tier, with iced lace flowers covering the bottom, and largest tier. I could spot at least half a dozen techniques used in a glance, further study would no doubt reveal several more. I had assumed it would be no small effort but goodness, I’d underestimated a little.

“Think we can do it?” Jamie asked, interrupting my assessment. His voice was filled with a wavering hope, of not daring to be overly confident in our task ahead.

“Honestly? This is going to be a Herculean effort.” I turned and looked up to him, a hopeful expression on my own face. “- but with some planning and us really getting our heads down… absolutely.”

We would succeed, I knew we would. Whether we would collapse from exhaustion at the task later, well that would be another thing entirely.

————-

Jamie and I had continued ahead looking through each photograph with an impossible level of scrutiny before sketching out designs for patterns and writing out the math for the flower work.

With an approximate attendance list of two hundred, we decided to feed the guests from the bottom tiers, with the option of cutting the third should I need to. The smaller tiers would be left for Jenny and Ian to use as wished. The top tier would be a small spice cake, eight inches in size. The second, a ten-inch almond cake with a Scottish honey buttercream. I would utilize the same spice mixture at twelve inches for the third tier. Fourth would be a simple sixteen-inch lemon and poppy seed white cake, sandwiched with a sweet raspberry curd filling. The final tier would pay homage to the Frasers; an eighteen-inch strawberry and basil cake with a Madagascan vanilla buttercream.

One hundred handmade roses in varying sizes would need to be made, amounting to between five and nine petals per rose – each individually created and shaped, one hundred Forget-Me-Not flowers and around forty Ornithogalum. And, to top off all of that, the 400 individual leaves needed. Each would be pressed into a mould, shaped from a pea sized amount of chocolate before being covered with a subtle luster.

‘Just a little bit of work for yourself, Beauchamp.’ I thought sarcastically.

Breaking for two large coffees and a round of goodnights, we had begun the task working off the same principles as our own kitchens. The hours passed in a flurry of mixing bowls and hot cake pans, into the Aga and out in fifteen-minute bursts. The temperature rose, the stone heating up with the bursts of hot air from the Aga and the flushes of exertion burned bright from our cheeks. Each ingredient was prepared, weighed and transformed into a cake batter. White flour swarmed the air like pollen, the sweet scent of sugar melding with strawberry notes, warm spice and citrus. I hadn’t been surrounded by as many scents for an age, I thought. The last time I was sure I had been with Vianne during a manic night of preparation for a new window display.

Jamie had stood vigilant by my side the entire night, working as tirelessly as I was to bring together the sheer magic needed to make this cake a success. The slap of wet batters mixed by hand, beaten with sheer force and determination. As each timer bell rang, Jamie ran to the Aga, checking on each cake to avoid any minor set-back or lengthy delay. We didn’t have the luxury of additional time to make more batter, nor the stock of ingredients. The precision had been almost military, no words spoken other than yeses or noes, working in a synchronization I hadn’t ever had with another chef.

We’d reached our fourth hour before Jamie had begun nodding off, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him.

“You awake there, Chef?” I asked, shouting over to him while he mixed together the honey buttercream. He stood to immediate attention, looking like a startled deer.

“Aye! Fine – just a bit…” A large yawn interrupted him mid-sentence, his chest rising as he inhaled deeply with the heaviness of fatigue.

I eyed him with concern before speaking, “Jamie, I think you should finish off the buttercream and go to bed. You’ve a huge day ahead of you and Jenny won’t take kindly to you yawning through the wedding pictures.”

“I’m fine – just need to shake it off.” His voice was so distant I felt as though I was standing thirty feet away from him. Jamie rolled his shoulders, stretching his back before continuing to work. I hummed in okay and continued working myself. Ten minutes more passed before I caught him with his eyes closed, stirring away.

“Jamie Fraser go to bed!” I slammed down the spatula onto the bench with a little too much force and Jamie jumped, knocking the bowl.

“Sassenach,” He half growled, “I’m fine.”

“You’re asleep on your feet! Just go to bloody bed!” If he hadn’t been as exhausted, I was sure he would’ve begun arguing back with more vigour. However, as his mouth opened in protest, a rather large yawn escaped instead. Case and point, I thought.

“I can’t leave you with all of this,” he gestured to the mess around us, “There’s too much.”

“Jamie this isn’t up for discussion. We’ve been working for four hours already and I know you’ve barely slept. Please go to sleep, I can finish this.” My tone was half pleading, wishing him away to leave me to the final leg of work. It wasn’t that I didn’t want his help, or that his help wouldn’t be of use – but a tired chef could be worse than an unskilled chef. One wrong move and something could be ruined, or worse yet Jamie could end up injured.

He stayed silent, contemplating his decision before he nodded. Finishing the buttercream, he set it into the refrigerator for me before removing his apron. He yawned again, his expression reminding me of a little boy fighting the inevitable sleep that would claim him.

“Goodnight, Sassenach.” Jamie stepped toward me, placed his right arm around my back and pulled me into a half cuddle, taking sleepily heavy breaths for several moments before letting me go.

“Goodnight Jamie. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” He let out a muffled noise of agreement before ascending the stairs, his sleep laden feet thudding up the stairs into the darkness of the night.

I took a heavy breath and looked at the room around me. The kitchen sat filled with the chaos of cakes and fillings, scattered ingredients and unwashed bowls. Was I too in over my head to get this finished? Left alone I would be faced with finishing the cake, knowing that any faults now lay with me and only me. I knew it would be ambitious, but the overwhelming feeling of duty to Jamie and Jenny, indeed to the Fraser family outweighed any worry that this would take an astronomic amount of effort.

Two layers were finished, sitting waiting to be stacked. My almond cake needed to be filled with buttercream and crumb coated before being enrobed in fondant. The lemon and poppy seed cake sat in a similar position, as did my strawberry and vanilla. With any luck, I could have all three filled, chilled, crumb coated and iced within the next two hours. Then the real work would start…

—————–

I finished preparing each of the cakes at almost three in the morning. My eyes had begun to fall behind tired lids, fingers tingling and my back in desperate need of a soft bed to lie on. Each tier sat atop the kitchen countertop, covered quite perfectly with a layer of ivory coloured fondant. I’d had to work quickly with the fondant, kneading it thoroughly before dusting with icing sugar, rolling and draping it before any cracks had time to appear. A risk of overexposure to air meant more of a chance at cracks - and at this point in the game that was not an option. The piping icing was ready, as were the white chocolate flowers Jamie and I had crafted. The final stretch sat before me - the decoration. Like the last lap for a marathon runner,this would be my opportunity to really get the gold.

Now would be the time, if there would be one, that I might fall asleep. The level of concentration necessary for such a task as piping work could quite easily knock me unconscious. Heading for my bag, nestled away by the door I fished out my headphones and took out my phone. Several missed calls from Frank, as well as multiple messages. I ignored them with a brush of my thumb, swiping away every notification. I would deal with the lying bastard later.

I opened my music, clicking on my aptly named baking playlist; “The Cookie Mix” stupidly named by Suzette during an evening of baking together in her apartment… and half a bottle of wine each. The playlist was eclectic in the least – the very least. It kept me awake during long work sessions and tonight would be intense. No amount of caffeine alone would keep me going. I hoped in the least that it kept me from repeating the chocolate fudge cake incident from six years previous… That poor kitchen ceiling had suffered enough.

Cracking my knuckles and wiggling my fingers to get rid of the tired tingling sensation, I picked up my earbuds, placed each into my ears and rolled my shoulders again before pressing play. The cool sounds of Solomon Burke’s ‘Cry to Me’ began playing, starting my soundtrack to the night’s work.

I walked over to the right-side countertop, collecting a large decorative white, satin edged board that Jamie had brought in for us earlier, acting as our base for the finished product. The first tier was placed with success onto a large dollop of vanilla buttercream, settling with a squelch of a noise. Dowelling became the next task, repeated four times until each tier sat majestically atop the other. I wobbled several times of course; entirely too busy with either half dancing or singing, or from the sheer weight of the cake in my hands. After what felt like a good hour, I had finished balancing the cakes onto the other.

“And that, is how you make sure your bastard cake doesn’t collapse!” I said aloud with a proud clap of my hands, cursing the Glasgow bakers and their cake catastrophe.

Leaning over to the end of the counter I dragged over a tall legged stool chair, depositing it behind me I reached behind me for the large prep-prepared piping bag and the stack of photographs Jamie had provided of Brian and Ellen’s wedding cake. A cream coloured icing had been mixed ready for the decoration across all the tiers. Getting the shade exactly right had been key; I’d needed to off-set the colour enough against the cream fondant that covered the almond sponges that it didn’t overwhelm the overall colour but that it also wasn’t lost. Each photograph in Brian and Ellen’s wedding album would provide me with the map to recreating the original and the chance to bring to life Jenny’s dream. The flowers would need to be made first, ready to be placed after the icing had been done. It’d be left with enough time to let the icing dry and enough time to ensure that any modelling chocolate wouldn’t crack with exposure before storing the completed cake.

—————-

My hands had shaken a little as I had draped short lines of icing from the fondant, falling just perfectly each time. Each small pearl of decoration I added was a small weight lifted further and further from my shoulders. Being a Patissier was always about patience with your ingredients, knowing that you had to show them respect and in return you would get the finished product you desired. With the forming of each chocolate rosel, delicately shaped by my very fingers, I had felt that patience and respect being pushed to a new limit I hadn’t yet experienced. Hundreds littered the counter, each made to be as perfect and identical as the other. The desire to cry from relief had been almost palpable, but I had continued on.

The music had helped, of course, each track setting my pace. It’s for Jenny, Ian and Jamie. I’d repeated over each song. Remember it’s for them.

The clock had ticked ahead several hours more before I finally stepped back from the cake. In the darkness of a winter’s morning, there stood my five tiers perfectly balanced, an almost exact replica of its predecessor. After eleven hours of constant work, I could breathe. Everything ached; from the top of my head to my toes. I was tired beyond belief, beyond any rational comprehension. This was up there with the feats of my career - I could hardly feel prouder of myself. I’d said to Jamie it would be great practice for the competition and goodness had I been right. I could hardly believe that the thing existed, let alone that I had brought the damn thing together as a final piece. Jamie and I had joked that this would be a perfect chance for us to practice for the competition, and by God it had been exactly that.

Each flower, each petal, every element had been moved to its exact mirror from the photograph, several glances approaching each decision. I’d built up from the bottom, right to the top. Ivory rose against ivory rose; a dash of icing to hold a Forget-Me-Not in place before checking once, twice, three times and placing the next. 

Nothing had shifted, nothing had sunk. 

All, it seemed, was right.

With the satisfaction of completion sinking in, I was suddenly hit with a rush of exhaustion, and in my tiredness, I folded my arms against the countertop and rested my heavy head against them. Just a moment of indulgent rest in the workspace, then I would move it to the fridge in the pantry before finally heading to bed. I knew I was getting too comfortable to move, my position just right, just comfortable enough. My breaths began to even, and as I drifted I thought to remember to take a piping pen to the reception for touch ups… 

—————– >>>> ————-

He’d been in a room, he wasn’t sure where but she sat beside him in her favourite blue shirt asking if he was okay. She’d held his hand, the cold feeling of her lost touch still lingering on Jamie’s hands. Jamie had told her, as always, that he was okay but he missed her. Ellen replied with the same sadness and regret as she always did; “I know, Jamie. I know.”

Her words were like a balm to the ache of the missing piece of his heart. Time had passed in the dream, though he wasn’t sure how long, his mother had asked about Claire. The moment she had, Jamie was sure that the dream had brightened as though the sun had come out. He’d told her everything he could, from the curve of her lips when she smiled, the tapping of her feet to her favourite song – even to her the tips of her fingers as she worked with him. Ellen had asked if he loved her, and Jamie had paused. She’d placed a hand on his arm and smiled so warmly Jamie was sure he might burst.

“You’ll know soon enough, my sweet lad.”

The vision of his mother faded so suddenly that as Jamie called to her, he woke in the darkness of his bedroom, her name still on his lips. The same feeling of disappointment that followed each dream like it returned sunk heavily in his chest.

Jamie sat up in the dark, readjusting to his surroundings though the weight of the dream that still lingered. Checking his watch through the darkness, the hands shone at around four in the morning. There would be no return to sleep, at least not for a while. His mind wandered back to his dream, to his mother and the expression on her face as he’d regaled her with stories of Claire. It was at this time he started to wonder whether or not she’d actually made it to bed.

“I should check – just in case.” He thought, before turning back the bedcovers and climbing out of his toasty bed to be met with the cold air and chilly floorboards beneath his feet. 

He tried with great effort to open the ancient bedroom door gently to avoid its natural tendency to squeak. Once he’d successfully done so, after several long moments, he wandered out onto the landing and listened for a moment for any signs of noise in the house. All was quiet. The boys slept soundly, Ian too he hoped. He couldn’t see as much as a dash of light from the kitchen, even as he leant across the banister.

With a stretch of his shoulders, the bones popping beneath his flesh he began his descent downstairs to find Claire. When he had navigated through the living room and gotten to the stairs, the usually soft light fiercly stung his eyes causing him to blink furiously to adjust to the light. With careful steps he made his way as silently as possible down into the belly of Lallybroch until finally, he reached the last step. The sweet aroma of chocolate, sugar and spice wafted through the air of the kitchen. 

“Claire? Ye there lass?” He spoke into the space, careful not to let his voice boom.

Rather than being met by Claire’s reply, his eyes fell upon her sleeping form. She lay across the countertop, arms crossed and head resting against them. Her wild hair sat knotted up in a bun at the back of her head, wisps flying free from their confines. Jamie felt his heart hitch seeing her.

‘Lord above…’ Jamie stared at her lovingly, enjoying a simple unguarded moment where he might look at Claire with the adoration he kept still in his chest. She looked an angel, he thought. From the moment, he’d seen her he had thought her quite perfect.

 

The dessert she had prepared had almost knocked him from his chair. Her humour, passion, creativity and light brightened his days and brought inspiration from the ether. Jamie had, however, been so blissfully distracted by Claire that he had entirely neglected to notice the wedding cake beside her.

Upon his noticing, Jamie’s breath was taken from him by sheer force of awe. There before him stood the mirror of the image he had shown her, as though stolen right from the page. It was beautiful, opulent and perfect. The handcrafted flowers, the piping, the sheer magnificence was almost blinding. Jamie knew that in the light of day and with less sleep in his eyes it would become even more wonderful. It would have to be moved to the fridge outside, but in his current shirtless, shoeless state – and in the middle of the night the odds were against him.

With quiet movements, he walked into the pantry at the back of the kitchen and turned on the light, revealing the more modern appliances that lived in Lallybroch. Bracing his hand against the cold refrigerator he opened it before beginning his task of silently emptying it, rearranging shelves with silent movements and stacking the few items it held on the bench. Those would survive a few hours sitting on the countertop, the cake however may not. Propping open the fridge and gathering his strength, the cake was lifted from the kitchen countertop and into the pantry, before being slid with a precise force onto the bottom of the fridge. He hoped and prayed that it would last the next hours ready for its reveal.

Returning to the main kitchen, his attention turned back to Claire. Jamie knew he could hardly leave her lying in the kitchen – the temperature had already considerably dropped and he didn’t want Claire to return home with a cold.

“I’ll have to try to get her upstairs.” He thought, before realizing that he would either must wake her, which wasn’t exactly fair - or he would need to carry her. Jamie’s throat dried, heart stumbling over mind. 

With careful steps he approached her sleeping form, placing an arm around her back. Jamie knew he was taking a risk – it was an invasion of her space, but he hoped she would forgive him for the sake of not waking up with a stiff neck and a sore back.

“Let’s get ye to bed, Sassenach.”

She moaned in her sleep and Jamie felt himself jump out of shock. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard. Gathering his wits, he moved his arm behind her back again, he placed his right arm under her legs and lifted her. Her body was light in his arms, lithe with a radiating warmth that bloomed beneath his fingertips. Claire moved again, making faint noises before falling quiet again, breaths in steady rhythm. She smelled like a concoction of vanilla and raspberry, the scent permeating from her clothes in a bloom around her. Jamie took a heavy breath, before walking slowly back out of the kitchen and beginning his ascent back into the main house. As he reached the hallway, his heart almost fell straight out of his body and onto the floor as Claire appeared to wake, head lifting from his arm.

“Jamie?” She muttered, voice thick with sleep and exhaustion.

“Aye, tis me.” He answered tenderly. 

Her eyes cracked open for a moment and she sighed before speaking wearily, eyes peering under heavy lids; “I think I’d miss you.”

Jamie stilled entirely, holding her slightly closer to his chest; “I’m no’ going anywhere, Sassenach.” His words were tentatively reassuring, hoping that they provided a little comfort in her haze. 

Claire moved again in his arms before nestling her head into the crook of his shoulder, inching her nose a little closer to his neck. The warmth of her radiating to the core of his chest, intermingling with feelings new to him but older than time. 

“I think I’d miss you even if we hadn’t met.” Her voice was clear, as clear as though she were awake and in mid-conversation. Claire’s eyes closed again as sleep took over again, leading her back into blissful oblivion.

Jamie’s eyes were pinned to her face, hyper aware of her body in his arms. For a moment longer he paused, bathing in the secrecy of sleep and darkness he wondered if she could feel his galloping heartbeat.

 

———————-  
END CHAPTER SEVEN - PART ONE


	12. A Wedding Takes Place - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day commences and our bakers find themselves being pulled into the whirlwind of the day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Hope you enjoyed part one of chapter seven, 'A Wedding Takes Place'. One more part to go before we move on ahead with chapter eight. Thank you for all of the comments, I really appreciate all of them. 
> 
> Bon appetit! x

I’d woken cocooned in silken bed sheets, wrapped up to my neck and clutched greedily in my hands. I sighed with contentment, willing myself to sleep a while longer before leaving my comfortable haven. It wasn’t until I closed my eyes again, turning onto my right side that I realised with great alarm that I was in bed, someone’s bed, and I had no idea how on earth I’d gotten there.

I sat upright, clutching the cologne scented duvet to my body like a guard. My hand reached out from beneath the cover, and I began rubbing my eyes with the palm of my hand, blinking right eye then left. A small lamp sat lit in the corner of the room by a high-backed armchair, the usual furnishings; a large mahogany wardrobe, dresser and sideboard furnished the room. A blue wallpaper decorated the walls, though the pattern wasn’t discernible through my sleepy haze. No natural light came from the curtain dressed window which meant that I couldn’t have slept for more than an hour or two before waking. Seeing the clock beside me confirmed my suspicions. I’d had almost four hours of sleep, which felt surprising considering how refreshed I felt.

Just as I was about to stand and try to gain my bearings, I heard deep breaths coming from the floor beneath the bed. I was clearly not alone.

My heart raced with fear as I gathered my wits and peered over the edge, exposing my back to the cold of the room. There, lying prostrate at the bottom of my bed, was a bare-chested Jamie. His mouth was open a little, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. A blanket was haphazardly wrapped around his waist, and I could barely tear my eyes away from his sleeping form. The strong line of his back, the definition of his shoulders and arms… the v shape of his hipbones making a terribly tempting appearance.

I shifted on the bed, a warm flush flooding my body that cut my breaths short. I had wondered how I had gotten upstairs and into bed, and there was my answer. Either I had slept walked up here, kicked him out of bed – or he’d found me sleeping in the kitchen and brought me upstairs without me even realising. I sincerely hoped it was the latter.

Moving backward, I tried to silently sink backwards into the mattress to contemplate whether or not leaving would be a good plan. My movements, however, made the bed creak treacherously beneath me – which in turn made Jamie sit bolt upright as though hit by a spark of electricity.

His head moved wildly, looking to the door and then immediately settling on me. Jamie placed both hands on the floor and pushed himself up, rubbed his eyes and looked to me before speaking in a sleep addled voice, “Are you okay, Sassenach?”

“I’m fine – sorry I scared you.” I replied, trying to force myself to divert my gaze from his chest. I began smoothing the bedding around me out of a sudden nervousness.

“Did ye sleep okay?”

Forgetting myself I looked around the room before realizing he was directing his question toward me. “Me? Oh, I slept…” I paused, “- really well actually. Though I must ask why are you on the floor? And how did I get up here? Last thing I remember I was resting in the kitchen.”

With a groan of effort he stood, stretching his arms over his head and I felt my throat thicken, eyes widening at the sight of his body. The line of his pyjama trousers sat quite perfectly on the sharp cut of his hips. I swallowed hard. “I found ye all twisted an’ lookin’ verra uncomfortable, hair flying all over the place. Gently woke ye and ye walked upstairs with me.”

Jamie picked up the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders, concealing his chest in a move that I was both thankful for and annoyed by.

“Oh, thank you. I’ll have to apologise for messing up another guest room.” I nodded to the space, pulling at the blanket still with nervous fingers.

He looked at me with a very peculiar expression, as though he’d expected me to know where I was without his telling me. “It was easier to just give ye my bed than try to get you to walk through the house.” 

My immediate reaction was to begin laughing – and it was a reaction I swallowed quickly.

“I’m going to get some coffee – see ye in the kitchen?”

A mumble of agreement was about all I could manage before he padded out of the bedroom, blanket still across his shoulders and out onto the stairwell. I fell back into the pillows, swallowing the buzzing sensation that thrummed through my body.

He’d put me into his bed.

I was in Jamie’s bed.

Oh.

Oh, Lord.

———————————–

After five minutes of sheer panic, wildly uttering “it’s fine, it’s completely fine” several dozen times I’d gotten out of bed, still clad in my clothes from yesterday and gone back into the house to the kitchen.

I’d found Jamie wiping down the benches, clearing up the mess I’d left behind after finishing up the cake. The kettle whistled as it boiled, two mugs sitting side by side waiting for the steaming liquid.

“Thought ye might have fallen back asleep, Sassenach.” Jamie’s said over his shoulder, his hands catching crumbs he swept off the countertop.

“Once I’m awake that’s usually it for me. I rarely fall back asleep.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement as I wandered past him and over to the window, gazing out into the darkness. No light in sight save the one in the kitchen. The night watched me back as I watched it, my face reflected back at me.

“What’d you think then?” The question was asked plainly without further description, knowing well that he would answer on the subject.

“I think that ye insisting ye were made team captain was the best decision made.” Jamie threw the crumbs into the sink along with the cloth he’d been using. We faced one another, half muddled with remaining tiredness, half so aware of the other. “Yer outstanding. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It wasn’t just me though –“ I retorted, “You helped. Give yourself some credit.”

“Are ye joking? Claire, all of that work? I might’ve helped with the batters, but you lass – ye must be a witch to create something as perfect as that.”

A laugh erupted from me, my chest shaking a little with the force of it. He launched into such a description and such fierce praise that I hardly knew what to do with myself beside smile and say thank you. There was a level of inexpressible gratitude beneath his words and with each I was touched.

Between the breaths of his speech Jamie had poured our coffee and we’d begun drinking it. His word eventually fell off with a fond, thankful smile into complete silence. There is an immense pleasure in the simplicity of standing with someone you care for in the depths of the night, coffee in hand with only a comfortable silence for company.

As the coffee cups were drained, I’d wondered whether or not we were actually the only ones awake in the house – or had we completely neglected duties as acquaintance of the family and best man. I asked him simply before taking another sip, the drink warming my chest so heartily that I could feel the heat blooming through my body. 

“Still too early. Give it an hour and it’ll be a mad-house.” He shook his head wearily, “I’ve so much to do. Have to get myself and the lads ready, check in on Ian and on Jenny. There’s the tent and the catering, and the bloody piper…”

As soon as he’d finished his sentence I felt immediately glad that I had made him go to bed when I had - even if he’d woken up and ended up on the floor for a couple of hours. He yawned and ran his hands through his hair before speaking again, “Luckily though I’ve no drive tomorrow.” I took another sip, hiding my curiosity beneath the lip of my mug. “Jenny and Ian are having a few days by themselves, so I have the pleasure of taking care of the boys. Can’t complain about that.”

“That sounds lovely, Jamie. Have you any plans?”

“Well yer staying aren’t ye?”

Jamie’s voice dropped as though I’d completely rejected him and the promise I’d made yesterday that I had incidentally completely forgotten about. “Yes! I mean if you want me to stay still.”

“Of course, I do Claire. Yer always welcome here.” The sincerity in his voice was drowning me so quickly I thought I might say something I might regret. He said those things as though they were life or death - there was no flippancy about them. My heart swelled ten times its size, thrumming against my bones and all I wanted to do was grab him tight. “I’ll take the lads on a walk in the morning - yer welcome to come with us. Dust off the madness from the last two days.”

I considered my options for a moment; stay in the arms of Lallybroch, in the midst of the Scottish wilds where I had felt more at home than I had in a long time with Jamie, his son and his nephew or return to answer Frank’s thousand questions as to where the hell I had been, with whom and doing what exactly.

“I’d love to, Jamie.”

—–>>>>——

As I stepped into the neighbouring bathroom to my guest room, I’d heard delighted voices echoing up the stairwell from the living room. I assumed they belonged to Jenny’s bridesmaids, arriving early to help her ready for the wedding. My bath, which ended up being an extremely interesting experience with a plumbed in slipper bath and a mixer tap that went from fiery depths of hell to arctic temperatures, was soundtracked by the squeals of wee Jamie bolting past the door, Jamie and Fergus’ hysterical laughter and several shouts of “James Alexander Gordon Fraser Murray get yerself back here now!” followed by “Jamie ye wee gomerel!” – a thumping noise, more squealing laughter and Jamie’s voice wobbling out “If ye escape again I’m tying ye to yer bed!”

When I’d stepped back out of the bathroom, my flesh met with the cold air I’d hurried to dry and begin dressing. Getting ready never took me a particularly huge amount of time, but on celebratory occasions somehow, I always ended up taking twice as long. It was my hair, always my hair, would require an ample amount of time dedicated to it. A little craft with some pins, a rather sizable ball of mousse and some hair oils I would be able to tame my wild mane into an up-do.

I sat down and unzipped my make-up bag to began. On the cosmetic front, I brushed over a little loose powder, a dash of eyeshadow and mascara and would add lipstick later. My skin had always been particularly good, a gift from my mother and the wise advice of Vianne who had drilled into my that a good eye cream and moisturiser should be at the forefront of any beauty routine.

With a ruffle of my towel across my head, I’d begun brushing out my mane. After a battle with a little too much mousse, fifteen minutes of blow drying and another ten minutes of brushing it back, I twisted my hair into a chignon and pinned it to my head. Carefully placed tendrils sat either side of my face, though I knew that as the day passed I would have pieces of hair flying everywhere – no matter how much hairspray I might douse myself with.

Walking to the wardrobe, I grabbed the garment bag and began to unzip it. The dress I had chosen for the wedding had been a rather expensive purchase for an awards ceremony months prior. I’d fallen for it at first glance, and had closed my eyes and punched in my pin number online. The dress itself was rather beautiful; a dark turquoise green floral corded lace and organza that fell to my knee with a scalloped hem. A jewel neckline and long lace sleeves went to my wrist meant that any jewelry was always restricted to my fingers and ears, though I didn’t particularly mind. 

Last were the shoes. I’d wisely decided against any ridiculous heel, instead opting for a black pointed toe court heel that wouldn’t cripple me after an hour or two of dancing in the evening. They’d cause a little chaos within an outfit that seemed rather perfect. With a smudge of satin rose lipstick and a dash of perfume, I left my room ready to meet Jenny and Jamie’s friends and family. 

————

As I’d reached the landing, I looked over the banister to see a room I barely recognised. Sometime during my time in my room, flowers and faces had appeared throughout the house. A garland of roses sat atop the fireplace, their blooms proud and full in various shades of pink, cream and white nestled amidst vibrant green leaves. Each bloom lit the room and I felt as though I had stepped into a dream, sweet and fragrant. The landscape of Lallybroch, the Scottish wilds had been brought inside and tamed into an enchanting beauty.

A modest crowd of maybe seventy people littered both the living room and courtyard waiting for the arrival of the bride and the start of the wedding walk. Lallybroch was humming with voices, and I watched both young and old greet one another with elation. Hands were shaken, hugs given and cheeks kissed in turn. The wedding was a gathering of friends and family, meeting in the way that one does when you haven’t seen distant cousins for several months or in fact several years. No time had passed for these people, they had simply been on pause until they had all come together again. The space had taken on a newness, a more intense glow of life. It was very obvious that Lallybroch should never be quiet – that the halls should be filled with voices and footsteps. For Lallybroch’s halls to fall silent would indeed be a great tragedy.

Taking the final step into the living room, I spotted the halo of Jamie’s hair coming toward me. What I expected in the moments that followed and what was presented were two things so terribly different it was almost laughable.

My mouth fell in a mixture of shock and awe. I could barely speak, looking at him across the room I was at a loss for words. The picture he had sent had not done him justice.

A Highlander in full regalia is impressive, but a young, tall and good-looking Highlander standing before you is breathtaking. He stood tall and straight, a presence but not looming. Jamie’s thick red hair had been brushed to a gleam, tied back from his face revealing his strong jaw lifted in a proud, pleasant smile. He looked a far cry from the baker I knew – and he knew it too. His tartan was a brilliant crimson, blue and black that blazed among the more sedate MacKenzies in their green and white. The plaid was decorated with a circular, silver brooch whose stag motif stood proud against the material. A sporran and dirk completed his ensemble.

“Jamie, you’re -” I looked down from his head to toes, “I mean - God…” The words stumbled out of my mouth with little coherency leaving me looking a bumbling fool. In such a state as was presented, all clarity came to me at once; he had never looked so beautiful as he did in this moment. I coughed one, twice and tried to speak once more. “You look handsome, really just –.”

His stare lingered on my face and my blush burned red hot, “Beautiful, Sassenach – Claire. Yer just…”

I tentatively reached out my hand and placed my palm onto the lapel of his jacket. “-They’d be so proud of you.” Jamie’s eyes filled, pinned on me with such intensity. The comment was personal, but after the whirlwind meeting and time together we’d had, everything we had shared thus far, I thought perhaps it meant something coming from me.

For the second he blinked the tears away, our moment was interrupted by the excited squeal of wee Jamie.

“Care!” He hollered, his small voice rising over the murmur of excited voices like a small horn. I looked over to him and saw his valiant attempt at breaking out of Murtagh’s arms to reach me.

“Yer best friend is after ye, Sassenach.” Jamie grinned, nodding toward the boy.

Murtagh had clearly given up in his attempt to subdue wee Jamie, approaching us with an almost upside-down child in his arms. Fergus followed behind him, clad in his own Fraser kilt wearing a smile so filled with pride and charm he looked every bit Jamie’s mirror.

“Care!” Wee Jamie’s short arms reached out, his fists making a grabbing action.

“Hello my darling! Are you excited?” He grinned and reached out again. I stuck out my arms and picked him out of Murtagh’s - much to his relief. I had only just gotten him settled upright in my arms before he had stuck his hands to my face to make raspberry noises. I kissed each of his chubby hands, his delighted giggles warming my chest.

In turn I finally said hello to Fergus, placing a hand on his shoulder and smiling with a newfound pride in him. “Fergus I must say, you look every bit the highlander – very handsome.” His sweet face blushed, the tips of his ears burning a bright red with embarrassment. Jamie nudged his opposite side, expression lit with his own delight.

“Never been prouder of him.” Jamie said, placing his arm around his back. We stood together, the five of us a small clan amongst the crowd. Jamie could barely stop himself from beaming with each glance he took at Fergus in his kilt. I could understand the emotion, to some degree. His son, not by blood but by heart, standing beside him with his family around him to celebrate his sister’s wedding. Jamie had said he had wanted Fergus to know that there would be a family for him if he’d wanted it, one who would love him without bounds. In the time I watched the two of them, I knew Jamie had gotten that wish.

“I’ll get that wee terror from ye Claire soon as I can. It’s just between everything an’ -” Murtagh mumbled beneath his beard, the exhaustion of the morning already catching up with him.

“Oh, I don’t mind. I can keep him busy while you’re taking care of things here and hand him over before the ceremony.” Murtagh looked at me with an immense appreciation of the offer, face softened with relief. Humouring a two-year-old on his mother’s wedding day was probably a small mercy for all. “You don’t mind do you, Jamie?” I asked, looking to wee Jamie’s gleeful face.

“I dinna mind, Sassenach.” I looked over my shoulder to be met with my Jamie hovering right beside me, smiling at Jamie the younger. Both Jamie’s turned and grinned at me at the same time as a mirror of one another. I couldn’t help but smirk through my words, rubbing wee Jamie’s back as I spoke; “Well I did mean little Jamie, but I’m pleased you don’t mind either.”

Jamie’s face turned a rather delightful pink at his mistake and I wanted nothing more than to begin teasing him further. I was, however, interrupted by Murtagh who insisted he should introduce me to the ‘important’ members of the family before we all left for the wedding – including those I would be sitting with. Fergus volunteered to stay with me, offering his assistance with the wriggling Jamie the younger. I sensed he might want to wander out of the chaos a little and back to playmate before the day really demanded his attention. Jamie the elder had been left behind, his attention needed elsewhere with the staff who were organising the event while we were all in church.

A panel of faces appeared before me in a matter of seconds, all of whom were revealed to be aunts and uncles of Jamie and Jenny. His Aunt Leticia and Uncle Colum had appeared kind enough, his Uncle Dougal had eyed me with a peculiar sense of caution. Their attention had swiftly turned to wee Jamie and Fergus. Dougal decided that wee Jamie should be held by him, and while I was in no position to argue, the swift scream of “No! Care!” and immediate tears had seen him placed immediately back into my arms. I’d received warm half embraces from Mrs Fitz and Geillis. The latter introduced herself with an undoubtable elegance and intelligence. Flaming red hair hung long down her back, a sly smile crossing her face as though she knew something I didn’t.

“It’s good to see ye, lass!” She’d exclaimed, pinching wee Jamie’s cheek. Mrs. Fitz had launched into telling me all about how excited she was for Jamie and I to be competing and wishing us the best of luck. After several minutes of praise, she had been interrupted by a petite, porcelain faced girl. Mrs Fitz’s face lit with happiness, a clear sign that she was someone close. She appeared in a soft pink chiffon bridesmaid gown that looked complimentary against her fair skin and blonde hair.

“May I introduce my granddaughter, Laoghaire MacKenzie. She’s Jenny’s maid of honour.”

A set of striking blue eyes set on mine and I, for a moment, was struck by her beauty. Her cheekbones sat lower than mine, her pink lips shaping a heart as she smiled, “Pleasure to meet ye.”

“Pleasure is all mine.” I returned the favour, feeling a peculiar need to stand a little straighter and straighten out my dress. Before I’d had chance to even attempt to strike up further conversation I saw Laoghaire’s entire demeanour change in an instant.

“Sassenach!” Jamie’s voice came from behind me and I turned to see him pushing through the crowd of friends and family to reach me. “Did ye not see me wavin’? My arm about fell off! Jenny’ll be down in a second – wanted to let ye know.” He placed a fatherly arm around Fergus back, holding him to his side and continued with blatant obliviousness, continued to look at me – and I him.

“Hello Jamie.” Laoghaire leant forward, her voice toned with the murmur of nervousness.

His attention returned to me and to wee Jamie who had decided he wanted to be cuddled by his Uncle instead. I handed him over to Jamie, rubbing my arms to relieve the ache that had come from carrying a small weight around my front.

“Claire, I could’ve taken him. I dinna want ye to tire yerself. Told ye that this morning.” He reached out a hand to rub my arm and I smiled, forgetting the situation we found ourselves in. The rather domestic nature of the scene was not lost on any of us and should have been embarrassing.

“I’m fine, honest. We’ve got him, right Fergus?” Fergus nodded purposefully, asserting himself in a ‘grown up’ manner as perfectly fit for the job.

A small cough and a woman’s voice interrupted us again. Laoghaire, dimple cheeked and flushed, attempted another hello.

Jamie half stepped back, seemingly realising that she was there at all. He smiled quickly and politely, moving wee Jamie to his other arm before nodding his head to her. “Laoghaire, ye look lovely.” Laoghaire flushed at his comment and I immediately realized that she clearly quite fancied Jamie – and he’d essentially ignored her.

As I opened my mouth to speak the sound of bagpipes came from the staircase behind us all and a sudden movement of bodies began rolling us all out of the door. Jamie quickly placed wee Jamie back into my arms, told Fergus to keep an eye on him for his signal to move to the front of the walk before disappearing back into the crowd. The swell of the crowd moved Fergus, wee Jamie and I outside into the sun-drenched courtyard to wait for Jenny’s impending arrival.

Our exit into the courtyard was met with the same burst of warm air one feels when you step off a plane. Bodies littered around me clad in tartans in the darkest greens, brightest reds and vibrant blues. Women in cool suits and long dresses stood effortlessly chic, hands fanning wildly, attempting cool down in the unseasonable heat. I could hardly believe the weather, sun shining radiant and warm from almost entirely clear skies. Such a strange turn would make the news surely, broadcasts telling all to get outside and enjoy the forecast while it lasted. Greens throughout cities across Scotland would be spotted with people sitting soaking up the sunshine. There’d not be a spot of space free in Glasgow and the thought made me pleased. If indeed Ellen and Brian were responsible, I thought that perhaps they would enjoy knowing that all were benefitting.

Cameras and phones were in hand above heads in hopes of snapping a picture of Jenny’s reveal. We were all positively alive with excitement, wee Jamie wriggling with a desire to be the center of my attention.

I leant down to Fergus, speaking closely into his ear above the mumbling noise. “I think we should move forward, Fergus? You’ll be able to see better and if Jamie needs you, you can get straight to him.”

“I think so.” Without notice Fergus took my hand in his own and began guiding me to the front of the crowd, speaking loud apologies in French and English. As we’d reached almost the very first step of the staircase I caught brief glimpses of bouquets and flashes of fabric billowing up into the air.

“If you need go you just let me know, okay Fergus?” He nodded again, smiling toothily. Wee Jamie continued to wriggle against me excitedly. Several times he’d kicked me in the leg with his shoes which I was sure would leave small bruises from the sheer force. Fergus continued to right his kilt and jacket, straightening wee Jamie’s as he moved.

“Are you excited to see Mummy, Jamie?”

He turned so quickly at the mention of Jenny that I was sure I would have ended up with a bloody nose should his head have caught me. “Mam!” He clapped and squealed in my ear causing several guests standing around me, including myself, to laugh. “Mam, Care!”

“Jamie, look!” Fergus placed his small hand onto Jamie’s back guiding him to watch the stairwell as the piper sounded and the procession from the house began. It took me a moment to realise that in the space of time between Fergus alerting all to watch the doorway, he hadn’t let go of my hand.

Laoghaire and the other bridesmaid walked out first, all prettily dressed in a complimentary soft pink that coordinated rather perfectly with Jenny’s muted pastels and blush toned scheme. As they descended the staircase I could see far better the fitted bodice of each dress, cut with a sweetheart neckline. The crowd cheered at their arrival, applauding as they stepped to meet us all, long sweeping skirts softly billowing around their legs. Jamie assisted both, leaving behind a frightfully nervous Ian who wrung his hands in what I assumed was impatience or excitement.

It was then that in an almost haze of light, Jenny appeared.

There’s an old phrase that every bride looks stunning on their wedding day. Jenny Fraser absolutely blew that concept out of the water. Standing in the frame of Lallybroch’s doorway, she embodied radiance – personified it even. A collective gasp of awe fell over the crowd, every eye looking to her. She glowed with an unbridled happiness that almost radiated from her being. Her face was adorned with an expression of such excitement it was catching.

Murtagh stood by her side, beaming with exultant happiness and fatherly pride that made one’s heart burst at his obvious joy. She stepped delicately, each precise so she might descend without faltering. Her dress revealed itself with each step; cream satin flowed to the floor, a small train following behind. The bodice, constructed of satin and lace was daringly almost entirely backless – buttoned at the top with the smallest of milky white satin buttons. Her hair sat pinned at the nape of her neck, twisted in a delicate chignon with a spray of pearls and white wildflowers pinned into the back of it. As she stood in profile, I noticed a small pearl comb holding her lace veil in place.

A bouquet finished her attire, constructed of Roses in soft peaches, creams and pinks, pillowed by white Gypsophilia flowers. A bow of cream lace ribbon wrapped the bundle together neatly, though barely visible in her grasp. Making her final step toward her beloved husband to be, it was then I realised Ian wore a buttonhole fashioned from Jenny’s bouquet.

We were all silently stood in awe, sniffles of tears and the noises of lenses capturing the moment a second soundtrack to the piper. Jenny looked almost ethereal and I beamed myself with happiness for her – and for Ian. The groom it appeared could barely speak, making a bow and struggling to greet his wife to be. His voice wavered with emotion, wiping the corners of his eyes. I wondered if it felt as though he were looking at her anew, with a clarity and love he might not have felt before. So much time had gone into this moment, so many hopes and dreams, the delays and heartache – and finally here they were. The love anchored in this moment would remain in the bones of this building and firmly in the memories of all attending. 

It was now that I found my gaze drifting to Jamie, who stood back watching the scene unfold. He stood proud, his back straighter than a knife edge. I could see silvery tear tracks down his face as he watched the two of them gazing at one another. The emotions running through him, the delight and pleasure would be immeasurable. Memories of the photographs we had looked through last night came to mind, and I was suddenly reminded of the expression his father had worn on his face.

A stir in the crowd and the striking up of the piper signalled the start of our walk to the church, through the verdant fields of Broch Tuarach. Fergus took my hand once more, and wee Jamie lay his head onto my shoulder as I stepped with care into the lane beyond. 

‘You’ll remember this day,’ I thought to myself, as I smiled and breathed deep the scent of cut grass floating lazily on the days soft breeze.


	13. A Wedding Takes Place - Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding ceremony begins and our bakers find themselves celebrating love - but is it only that of our bride and groom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We reach the final part of chapter seven and it’s a long chapter so get yourself a cup of tea and sit yourselves in a comfy chair. I do hope you all enjoy it! Thank you for the comments and kudos on previous chapters, it means so much that you're all enjoying Just Desserts! 
> 
> I hope that your wait has been worth it...

 

Murtagh Fraser held his head high with pride as he walked Jenny down the aisle toward a grinning Ian. He looked every part of the no-nonsense highlander, but the shy smile betrayed his exterior, showing instead a soft-hearted Godfather giving away his Goddaughter. Jenny’s expression was one of unadulterated happiness. Her cheeks flushed with pink and eyes filled with unshed tears. Murtagh held her arm, his large hand clasped reassuringly as though she was a pillar holding him up.  Their steps were measured in time to the wedding march, each taken as though they were memorising every detail of the scene.  
  


When they reached the alter, Murtagh placed Jenny’s hand in Ian’s and the ceremony began.   
  


My experience of Catholic weddings was limited to say the least, but I knew to stand, sit and kneel and could follow along with the hymns with a level of believability. Prayers were spoken, the lesson from the bible given and hymns sung. I had felt myself feeling a fierce feeling of adoration and happiness for both Jenny and Ian with each of their looks. Part of me wondered if they would remember every detail of their wedding, of this service and the words spoken. Did the rush of happiness, excitement and the overwhelming feeling of the day finally being there, of it finally happening - did it blind them? Would they remember all of us, or simply one another?  
  


Statements of intention had been made and exchanges of consent. The priest had asked for their intention about freedom of choice, of having and raising children in accordance with the holy Catholic Church. Wee Jamie had decided to quite audibly decided to announce himself during their answers, eliciting a muffled laugh from the congregation.  
  


During our car ride to Lallybroch, Jamie had told me story of Ian and Jenny’s two prior ‘almost weddings’. In the last three years, they had been struck by tragedy twice and a blessing. The first tragedy had struck Ian while he had been working on a restoration project. An interior wall had collapsed in a high wind, catching Ian underneath it. He had lived, of course, but his leg had been amputated.  
  


After months in the hospital followed by physical therapy, Jenny had wanted to get married as soon as possible. They’d started planning again, getting further than previously until the second tragedy struck. This time leaving the Fraser family in ruins. Brian Fraser passed away from a sudden and violent heart attack. Jamie and Jenny had been left parentless and in the ruins of a wedding. It had been rescheduled for an unknown date in the future, all plans hanging in the air. As time had passed, and wounds became less raw, Jenny had discovered she was pregnant.   
  


“Ye have it in yer mind that ye’ll grow, learn and meet your love. Ye’ll be married and have your bairns… Sometimes life has a way of not going the way ye expect.” Jamie had said wisely.  
  


Their vows were given, laden with such emotion only conjurable at weddings. I watched Jenny intently as she made her promises, her voice swimming with nerves. Her hands shook as she held Ian’s, her gaze never moving from his.  
  


“I, Janet Flora Arabella Fraser, take you Ian Alistair Robert MacLeod Murray to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life -” Jenny’s words fell off as she swallowed a thick throat filled with tears. The sanctity of marriage was not to be underestimated today. It wasn’t just a ring worn or paper signed, it was a commitment to making things work; to a new life, to conquering the new as a pair. Jenny and Ian’s marriage, indeed their lives together, had been forged in fire and it was all the stronger for it. “- Until death do us part.”  
  


Ian followed with his vows, his hands shaking in Jenny’s. We watched in awe, hanging on each word spoken. Midway through his sentence he had paused, wiping away tears from Jenny’s face leaving my heart swollen at the moment, sure that I hadn’t ever seen anything as sweet and honest. A solemn hush had fallen over the guests that was punctuated with sniffles and ruffling tissues.  
  


The line ‘Til death do us part’ had always struck a peculiar chord with me. It seemed almost morbid. If I were standing at an altar about to marry the man I loved, promising to love and cherish him - well why would that end after death? I wasn’t the best Catholic in creation, but part of me had always subscribed to there being something after death - a place where you might see a loved one again. If that place is heaven, then one would hope that the love would exist beyond mortal bones.  
  


The Priest blessed Jenny and Ian’s wedding rings through prayer and a sprinkling of holy water. Ian placed Jenny’s ring onto her dainty hand, Jenny mirroring his action with a laugh as she wiggled the wedding band onto Ian’s own shaking hand. More blessings and prayers were spoken, eyes closed spoken with the solemnity and respect due. Blessings were given to both Jenny and Ian, to the congregation and suddenly the wedding had ended. Three years of waiting, of heartbreak and happiness, they had finally made it. It had been a long time coming for them, and they deserved nothing less than the day they had waited for.  
  


\----------  
  


Boxes of confetti sat on a small table at the doorway of the church for each guest to take upon their leaving. The traditional paper confetti had been done away with – instead dried heather flowers peppered with lavender blossoms had been boxed together.  
  


_‘Quite a lovely idea.’_  I thought, smelling the fragrant scent.  Jenny and Ian certainly were keeping their wedding as close to the earth, and to the highlands, as possible.  
  


We were all once again greeted by the warmth of the day as excited voices continued chattering about the beauty of the ceremony, of the bride and the handsomeness of the groom. It was the usual wedding chatter; conversations had a dozen times but each time held special.  
  


The piper struck up again, appearing stately in his regalia with a cheer erupting around him as the bride and groom made their appearance. Flowers rained through the air in a shower of lilac, violet and blue leaving a carpet of dried blooms underfoot. A photographer stood with a rather expensive looking camera to his eye, snapping pictures wildly and capturing the moment forever on film. Several dozen pictures were taken in quick succession; Jenny and Ian holding one another in various poses, another of the two of them and wee Jamie, and a quick collection of Jenny, Ian, wee Jamie, my Jamie, Murtagh and Ian’s parents. I was quite surprised at the speed to which most of the pictures were taken, though it occurred to me that Jenny and Ian would be eager to return to the festivities.  
  


A quick shout from Murtagh signaled the beginning of our walk back to Lallybroch. The crowd began their departure, the remnants of their boxes of confetti being scattered across the path. Jenny and Ian walked in tandem, hands firmly clasped as though they were teenagers in love.  
  


“Sassenach! Claire!” I looked up to see Jamie running through the bodies toward me, his kilt swishing out behind him to give me a rather delightful view of his thighs. “Thought I’d walk back with ye. Too nice a day not to enjoy your company.” He grinned and I felt my heart thrum at his words. I nodded, slowing my pace so I might stay beside him. It wasn’t until a short while later that I realised that Jamie had seemingly abandoned Laoghaire for my company, leaving her walking solo ahead of us. I felt a short stab of pity for her, knowing full well I should have encouraged him to walk back with her.  
  


Instead, I swallowed the comment and decided to greedily keep his company for my own.  
  


 

\-------------------->>>>>\-----------------  
  


Upon our return to Lallybroch, we were met by a sight that could have rivalled Eden itself. I wasn’t sure how, but everything had brightened in the short time we had been away from Lallybroch, as though someone had cast us forward into the warmth and brightness of the depths of summer. Oaks and evergreens stood lined with strings of lights and inky black lanterns hanging down from various branches. Wildflowers framed tree bases, long stemmed flowers stood proud in tall vases throughout the garden. I was aghast, stood still in my tracks marvelling at the sight. A mammoth white gazebo had been constructed right in the centre of the walled garden, pegs holding taut lines of rope with two large lanterns flanking either side of the doorway.  
  


Two kilt clad servers stood just inside the doorway holding silver platters of fizzing champagne to welcome us, a seating chart stood on a large wooden easel beside them for guests to figure out where and with whom they were sitting. Clearly no one was to enter the tent yet, giving the team additional time to prepare the interior.  
  


Picking up a glass, I thanked the server I had taken it from and wandered slowly through the crowd and over to the seating chart to scan for my name. The effervescence of the champagne whooshed around the glass, rustling like taffeta or trees in a breeze. Spiralling bubbles rose upward, fizzing against my lips as I took my first sip. Champagne had never been a favourite of mine, but the subtle fruitiness of the drink was a welcome change to the usual assaults my palette had faced.  
  


Acquaintances were usually placed at lower tables, and I took no offence at such a decision. Ian had mentioned having me placed on the chart and to just check on the day. I’d taken several glances over the board before realizing I couldn’t see my name anywhere. I closed my eyes briefly, hoping to high heavens they hadn’t forgotten because situations such as these never panned out well. With a heavy blink I looked again, scanning each lower table until my eyes drifted up the board.  
  


**GUEST Table One**

Colum MacKenzie

Leticia MacKenzie

Dougal MacKenzie

Geillis Duncan

Willie MacKenzie

Angus Mhor

Rupert MacKenzie

Fergus Fraser

Glenna Fitzgibbons

**_Claire Beauchamp  
  
  
_ **

I moved back as though I’d been shoved. 

I’d been placed with Jenny and Jamie’s family.   
  


I looked around with utter confusion, hoping to see someone to wandering over and say, ‘you’re at our table’ and righting what had to be a mistake. I had been prepared to have been sat with friends of both somewhere in the back, never mind a stranger sat with family members. Who the hell had decided to sit me so close!? I’d look the imposter - eyebrows would be raised and questions asked. Jamie would know, I would have to ask if there had been a mistake of some sort before I embarrassed myself.   
  


\--------------------------  
  


I’d found Jamie chatting with one of the caterers, grabbed him the moment he’d stopped speaking and demanded to know if he knew anything about the table order and why on earth I’d been sat with his family.  
  


_“Jamie it doesn’t make sense! There has to be a mistake.”_  I’d pleaded. Instead he had squeezed my hand and grinned his know-it-all grin.  
  


“If Jenny an’ Ian have sat ye there, Sassenach, then that’s where ye are.”   
  


He’d been called away not a moment later, leaving me swigging the rest of my champagne and feeling an utter gooseberry.   
  


\---  
  


The crowd now were making there way into the gazebo, passing the kilted servers who stood like guards by either sides of the door. To my surprise, the Eden we had left outside had followed us inside. The space had been transformed into an almost fairy-tale like scape, one of which stunned each guest as we all entered in turn. Fairy lights had been strung around the sides of the room in long chains, providing a subtle warm light to the space. A chandelier reminiscent of a gallery installation hung overhead above the dance floor. Dozens of Edison bulbs shone low over the floor, encased in mason jars like fireflies. When the sun had set, and night hung low over the house, the gazebo would glow like an amber lantern.   
  


Tables lay across the floor, spaced equidistant so guests might interact with one another with ease. There would be no strangers in this room today, all would walk out family. Jenny’s vintage theme had swept beautifully into the space and onto the tables.  
  


I arrived at my table first; the other guests filtering to lower numbered tables around me. The feeling of being the imposter hit me again, and I felt the desire to wander away to find Mrs Fitz so that she might accompany me. Looking up, I saw her embracing someone by another table – realising full well I couldn’t be so selfish as to pull her away from a reunion. Swallowing my nervousness, I directed my gaze to the table, dedicating some time to appreciating the work Jenny and Ian had gone to for their guests.  
  


Linen cloths had been draped across each of the tables in the gazebo, an embroidered gold runner sitting atop it. Each place setting sat neatly presented, every detail the mirror of its neighbour. Short stemmed bouquets of cream roses and Gypsophilia flowers sat in crystal vases in the centre of the table, a table number card sitting proud above the flower heads. Like the points of a clock the white china plates marked the spot of each of the table guests. Beside each plate sat various glasses all rimmed with a circle of gold, several pieces of shining silver cutlery and the wedding favours for each guest.  
  


The favours consisted of two parts; a small box of buttery Scottish tablet and a miniature bottle of highland gin, labelled with a white tag featuring the same monogramming and date. I wondered if Jamie had been the one behind the sugar confection, conjuring an image of him standing over a buttery bubbling cauldron with an expression of great concentration on his face.  
  


“Ochs! Claire, I thought I’d have caught ye lass!” Mrs Fitz came almost barrelling toward me, a picture in a satin fuchsia dress, complete with a glowing look of delight on her face. “I wanted to introduce ye to some more of us!”  
  


She made a noise, flicked her hand and looked at the table. Mrs Fitz eyed the table, spotted her own name and made a second noise, this time of dismissal. Picking up her name card, she switched her place setting with Willie MacKenzie and then proceeded to nod and sit herself down beside me.  
  


“I’ll no leave ye lass. Jamie wouldn’t want it.”   
  


With a wink, she took my hand and I could do nothing but smile.  
  


\----------  
  


Jamie’s Aunt and Uncle’s arrived shortly afterward, eyeing me with the same curiosity they had earlier. With a bright welcome, Mrs Fitz had reintroduced me, describing me with some element of awe and wonder as, in her words, “She’s the best Patissier in Scotland! Served Kings and Queens! She and our Jamie will rule the business!”  
  


Her enthusiasm had elicited a bit of an awkward smile and congratulations from the table. I felt as though I was sitting beside my proud mother who blissfully bragged to the other parents in the school yard.  
  


Jenny and Ian entered not long after to rapturous applause, the rest of the wedding party following behind looking proud as peacocks. Jamie had caught my eye as he’d walked past, grinning at me with such glee it could have been bottled. I was sure Mrs Fitz had noticed the exchange, but thankfully did not announce it. The rest of the table began to fill with the kilt clad MacKenzie groomsmen; Angus, Rupert, Willie and Fergus who sat to my left. Wee Jamie had been seated with his grandparents, his grandmother playing with him in his high chair a table away.  
  


“Lads, you’ll have met Claire – she’s working wi’ our Jamie on the baking competition and she’s made Jenny and Ian’s wedding cake.” This time it wasn’t Mrs Fitz that introduced me to the table, but Colum MacKenzie, Jamie’s Uncle. He eyed me with the same curiosity a cat has when confronted with a goldfish in a glass bowl. “She’s all but moved into my kitchen in Morda.”  
  


“Aye – I recognise yer face.” The rather gruff brogue of the longer haired gentleman at the table came rumbling out of his mouth, triggering the memory of his voice in the smoking area outside the restaurant on Ashton Lane.  
  


“I remember you! Jamie said you’re Angus? And Rupert?” I looked to the larger, stockier one of the three groomsmen. He nodded in agreement, a smile gracing his plump face, “And I am sorry, I haven’t met you before.”  
  


The slighter, and far younger of the three sat to my left and looked awash with embarrassment, “William MacKenzie – though I get Willie for short.”  
  


“Aye an’ I ken what else is a short –”  
  


“Angus Mhor hold yer tongue in front of company – and a wean!” Mrs Fitz scolded loudly causing a loud laugh from our table, especially from the redheaded woman sitting beside Dougal. Said woman almost immediately stood, and leant directly across the table, sticking out her hand for me to shake in introduction. She was incredibly fair skinned I realised, with piercing green eyes that were only complimented by her burnt orange coloured dress.  
  


“Ye haven’t met me either so I’ll go on ahead an’ say hello. Geillis Duncan - Senior Nurse at Raymore Hospital.” Her voice was filled with an excited enthusiasm that I immediately liked.

 

“Claire Beauchamp. Patissier at Restaurant Andrew Fairlie at the Gleneagles Hotel – and as Mrs Fitz mentioned I’m working with Jamie.”  
  


“Aye,” She sat back down and picked up the remains of her champagne, “’Tis a pleasure Claire!” Her attention toward me faltered for the time being, though I was sure it would resurface at some point during the evening.  
  


I turned my own to Fergus, while he looked through pictures on a small digital camera. Part of me felt as though I needed to check on him, to ensure he was okay and that he wasn’t being ignored. A child sat at a table filled with adults could either mean he would be overwhelmed with attention or cast back from conversation. I could hardly let the latter happen.  
  


“And how are you, Mr Fraser? Are you enjoying yourself?”  
  


The moment  _Mr Fraser_ came out of my mouth anyone would have thought that I’d handed the boy a wad of cash and told him to run riot with it. His expression was an angelic concoction of joy and excitement. I wondered if anyone outside of his direct family had address him by his new surname.  
  


“I am! Aunt Jenny looks  _tres belle_ , doesn’t she?” I nodded, casting my gaze to the bride who sat animatedly laughing at her godfather. “I can’t wait to see the cake. Da said he’s never seen anything so…  _exceptionnel_.”  
  


“Well,” I felt myself flush at the compliment, “It was a joint effort. I’m very proud of it though. Jamie said that you like to cook too?”

 

Fergus brightened in the same way Jamie and I did when someone mentioned cooking. “Yes! I love it! There is such…” his English faltered a little again,  _“une telle joie dans cuisine pour les autres!_ ”   
  


I interrupted him momentarily, asking if he would prefer to speak in French – a question which seemed to bring him a little relief and joy. While his English was quite perfect, there was a joy to speaking in your native tongue.  
  


Fergus continued in French, telling me animatedly all about his school cooking lessons and helping Jamie at Broch Morda. Apparently, Jamie had taught him skills it had taken me a year to learn at pastry school, and he had picked them up in a matter of lessons. Fergus was quite resolute in wanting to keep learning, perhaps head to pastry school like his Da. I returned my story, telling him of my own start in pastry and learning from Vianne Raymond. His response to this comment was incredibly like Jamie’s – the same shocked disbelief and eyebrows raised as high as his hairline. It seemed that he was as much of a fan of her as Jamie and I were, calling her “a culinary goddess”.

 

“Well, if you’d like to you can always come to Gleneagles and visit me if you’d like to?” I offered, nudging his shoulder with my own. “I’d love to give you a tour – and maybe try to introduce you to Chef Fairlie if I can.”  
  


It was the least I could do for him, I knew. He was so engaged and bright, he deserved the opportunity more than a dozen of the interns that had graced the floor of my kitchen. The look of blank astonishment on his face was enough of an answer. Fergus half jumped into my arms to embrace me, speaking with such speed that even I had trouble keeping up with him.  
  


“Tell your Da if he reminds me next week I’ll organise something, okay?”  
  


“Oui! I’ll ask now!” He answered in English, almost falling out of his seat to rush over to Jamie to ask him about my offer.  
  


Watching on, I saw Fergus tap Jamie on the arm several times to get his attention, and when he had it, begin flailing his arms with the same enthusiasm with which he spoke. Jamie looked over to me, the dimples in his cheeks appearing as he smiled with a fatherly appreciation.  
  


“Yer a hit with both the Fraser lads it seems, Claire.” Mrs Fitz said beside me, a great surety in her assessment.  
  


“Oh – I mean I’d like to think so. Jamie and I are good friends and if I can help Fergus well that’s a bonus, isn’t it?” I looked over to them again, watching their continued conversation.  
  


She watched me as I spoke with a calculation behind her eyes. I could almost see her doing the math, though I wasn’t exactly sure what that math was.  
  


“Oh aye. Jamie values family above everything, especially wee Fergus. Anyone willing to be there for him and for his family goes up high in his book.” She placed a hand onto my arm, patting me softly in assurance.  
  


I found myself unable to comment, and the moment itself was interrupted by the arrival of our starter course and a slightly out of breath Fergus who let out a sigh of relief at the arrival of the first course and I couldn’t help but laugh a little. A small mercy to eat and then have the wedding speeches – no worse a situation than trying to fight hunger pangs through a long-winded best man speech…  
  


The plate was placed before me and I suddenly realised just how positively hungry I was – let alone my French companion.  
  


Plated to near perfection, I was presented with a warm Goat’s cheese tart with a Rockette salad and caramelised balsamic red onion. I paid little thought to my fellow table members, picked up my cutlery and set about tasting the plate. The tart sat rather beautifully nestled amidst a Rockette salad, the bubbling round of warm Goats cheese sitting atop a fluted pastry case filled with a caramelised red onion in a vivid shade of claret.  
  


With a sharp cut, I picked up a small amount of each to savour the first taste of the tart. I was instantly met with a burst of rich flavour that made me stop for a moment. The pastry had a perfect flavouring of parmesan, its texture crumbling in my mouth with each bite. The sweet concentrated caramel consistency of the onion paired perfectly with the Goats cheese that melted against my tongue with a tangy, creamy taste. All of which was finally combined with the herbaceous, peppery flavour of the rocket. Whoever had decided on the menu should have been congratulated on the spot.  
  


If this was the starter alone then goodness, by the end of the meal I knew I would be almost paralyzed with delight.  
  


\------  
  


Plate after plate appeared before us in a paced succession, each as mouth-watering as the one previous. From my left appeared a long rectangular plate with three fat, marshmallow like scallops placed equally across it. Seared golden brown atop a verdant pea puree, a long shard of crispy prosciutto sat atop it, framed with a sumptuous drizzle of buerre blanc.  
  


I took my knife in hand and sliced through a scallop, shattering the prosciutto with a satisfying snap. Dipping the white flesh into the buerre blanc, I took the mouthful and sighed. The shellfish was sweet and firm, a soft texture that was cooked to near perfection. The salty prosciutto complemented the delicate flesh and the buttery, custard like buerre blanc left me contemplating licking my plate.  
  


The next course was a palette cleanser. A stout, wide rimmed glass filled with three balls of apple and calvados sorbet, glistening in the most glorious yellow colour, as bright as daffodil. Taking a small teaspoonful, I was immediately transported to a French bistro I had visited at the tender age of twenty-two. The sorbet melted in my mouth; delicate, sweet and tangy. Despite barely feeling the lingering taste of Calvados, memories flooded back of tart Normandy cider and sweet kisses in summer.  
  


It was during this brief palette cleanser that Geillis made good on the feeling I had had earlier.  
  


“Are ye married then, Claire?”  
  


I’d half choked down the icy treat, eyes watering and my nose suddenly tingling. She’d been forward before, but Lord Almighty this was full steam ahead. The entire table looked at me with expectant eyes. Mrs Fitz and Fergus, I was sure knew about Frank, though I hardly wanted to think about him in that exact moment.  
  


“I’m not - not that I wouldn’t consider it.”  
  


“Oh, that’s a shame.” I could tell her inquisition was not finished. Her eye twinkled with a spite that was I wasn’t sure was not malicious. “Ye must have a man somewhere though? Must be wondering’ what yer up to with us lot.” I grinned, laughing off the comment.   
  


_Oh,_ I thought,  _He’ll be wondering all right.  
  
_

As I contemplated an actual answer that might skirt around her questioning, Fergus interrupted with a noise of shock, followed by an expression of what seemed to be pain. It turned out that he had entirely misjudged the cold factor of the sorbet, and now sat pulling faces as he suffered an almighty fruity brain freeze - much to the amusement of the table.  
  


Geillis comment was suddenly lost and an immense feeling of relief took over. If I could’ve kissed the boy for his timing I would have.  
  


\-----------  
  


Our main arrived a short while later, presented on a large circular white plate. Filled with a generous portion of tender lamb, pearl potatoes, baby carrots and butternut squash, all drizzled with a Merlot coloured gravy, this was comfort food and gluttonous luxury.  
  


The succulent, fatty flesh fell apart in my mouth with the first bite. The garlic and rosemary seasoning only enhanced the flavour and the gravy had been perfectly concocted with a complimentary port wine and redcurrants. Seasonable vegetables had been stacked beside the lamb in a setting that I knew took an immense amount of work to look so effortless. Each had been cooked to a glazed, crispy perfection; their salty texture cutting through the lamb fats wonderfully. It took me a moment to convince myself not to shout for more gravy so I might greedily drown my meal with it.   
  


\-----  
  


As the contented fullness of a meal thoroughly enjoyed came over me, the final plate was delivered and oh, I could have applauded out of elation and respect for the chef. Before me sat a perfectly smooth, domed parfait, drizzled with a yellow-orange coulis I soon realised was a heavenly scented tart apricot. A rubble of honeycomb had been placed around it in a golden halo, ready to be scooped up with a taste of the parfait.  
  


With each spoonful of parfait, the rich and creamy texture melted in my mouth. The honey had such floral notes it reflected the plant and place from which it came. Paired with the bite and crunch of the crumbly honeycomb and the faint tartness of the apricot, I was sure I’d been brought ambrosia from the gods. It was perfectly balanced, so much so that your palette found no boredom in the plate, instead it was continuously brought to life with note upon note of exploding flavour.  
  


Lastly, as glasses were filled again for what would be the impending speeches, a kind faced woman politely offered coffee and tea to the table, complete with dinner mints. I politely declined, knowing well that a single chocolate mint could quite possibly leave me in a food related coma.  
  


\-------------------------------->>\------------------------------  
  


The chime of a knife against glass began the wedding speeches, the shuffling of chairs and the attention of all directed to the wedding table.  
  


Murtagh stood proudly beside Jenny ready to make the grand speech he had no doubt been rehearsing for weeks. His hands unknowingly betraying his cool demeanour as they shook the microphone nervously. He began with a welcome, thanking all for their attendance on a day that had been too long in coming.  
  


“Usually the father of the bride has the honour of getting to make the speech on behalf of his father, but of course, we are missing two of the most important people of today, Brian and Ellen. So, on this occasion it falls to me to try to express all the things I know Brian would have wanted to say on this occasion. So, I ask you to please excuse me if I have trouble getting through this speech. We miss Brian and Ellen more and more each day, but even more so today when I know that they would have loved to have been here to say these words to you.”  
  


The room was filled with a sober silence, the hearts and minds of all remembering Brian and Ellen, throats thick and eyes filled with memories of what was and what could have been. It was a silence of remembrance, heavy with heart, sorrow and hope.  
  


“Today I was given the honour of standing beside you Jenny, as you married the man you have loved, stood beside – and fought with for almost a decade. Seeing you standing on those stairs this morning, ye could have knocked me down wi’ a feather.” A chortle of relieved laughter spread through the crowd as Murtagh took a sip from his glass and wiped his perspiring brow.  
  


“You have made me proud every day of your life, Jenny and today is no exception. You work harder than any other to bring happiness to dozens of weans at your school, to give them somewhere to learn and thrive. You and Ian gave us the gift of new life after the darkest time in our own, and every day I see more of the mischief you had as a wean in his wee face! Everyday your intelligence, wit and bloody sarcasm gets stronger – and no Godfather or father could be prouder.”  
  


Murtagh turned to the bridesmaids and the groomsmen with a nod and a smile, “I must say a thank you to the beautiful bridesmaids and to the lads for standing beside Ian - and not getting him drunk last night! Another special thanks to Jamie and to the wonderful Claire for their tireless efforts in making the wedding cake.”  
  


“Finally, I’ll not delay proceedings any further with memories of Jenny growing up - like the time she decided to give the dogs haircuts aged six, or being almost expelled from school for nearly blowing up the science classroom. So instead, I will ask you to join me in a toast, to my lass and to Ian.  Ye have waited yer time for today, and I hope it is everything ye have dreamed of. I ken yer Mam an’ Da are looking down on ye today proud as can be – and holding off that rain for ye!  Ladies and gentlemen – and Angus,” A roll of laughter fell over us all as Angus made several moderately inappropriate hand gestures in response, “I give you the bride and groom.”  
  


A resounding cheer of “to the bride and groom!” sounded, with a clink of glasses and a sip of bubbly. Jenny stood to hug Murtagh, Ian in turn shaking his hand as Jamie stood to his feet to give his speech. The crowd fell silent once more, waiting for his words.  
  


“Hello, you all know me as Jenny’s handsome, talented younger brother Jamie.” Jenny’s arm extended with deadly precision and whacked Jamie squarely on the arm. “Yer all witness to her mistreatment of me.” He laughed, rubbing his arm comedically.  
  


“Now, I’m supposed to tell an embarrassing story about Ian here – and while there are many, many stories including the night in Amsterdam with the peddle bikes and a bottle of Tequila…” Jamie paused for effect, leaving Ian to fill the space with a splutter, his eyes wide as saucers with the memory. “So instead, I thought I would share the real story of how Jenny an’ Ian first got together.”  
  


“Don’t ye dare!” Jenny shouted warningly, several dozen laughs following her comment.  
  


“All’s fair in love an’ war, an’ I’m sure ye’ll repay the favour sister of mine.” Jamie tried to punctuate his statement with a wink which, of course, looked more like a heavy blink.  
  


“As most of ye ken, Jenny, Ian and I grew up together and as we all know they fell in love….” Jamie launched into a story that left all of us aching with laughter, napkins at the ready to mop up stray tears. I could barely take my eyes from him, watching him in his element surrounded by family and friends. He was radiating boundless energy and joy, each line delivered with enough emphasis to cause a roar of laughter or applause.  
  


“… So, I find the now Jenny Murray an’ Ian Murray snogging on the couch, very unaware of my presence! What was I to do? Other than to very politely interrupt this moment! Ian, ever the graceful lad that he is fell straight off the couch onto the floor, went bright purple and I end up being promptly told off for interrupting them!” Rolling laughter filled the tent and I could see how pleased Jamie was with himself for finishing the story with such effect. Jenny and Ian sat beside him with faces the colour of beetroot, trying to hide their own smirks at the memory. “, they’ve been inseparable ever since and we have all been better for it!”  
  


Clearing his throat and taking a sip of water, he continued to the end of his speech.

 

“Thanks are due to the beautiful bridesmaids and again to Angus, Rupert, Willie and my lad Fergus for standing up today. I want to reserve special thanks for my partner, Claire. You sent me to bed,” An almighty and terribly cheeky jeer came from Angus and Rupert that cast the rest of the gazebo into a hurricane of laughter that spilled over into Jamie’s speech. “ And you kept working through the night to get the cake ready for its big reveal.”  
  


He tipped his glass to me and I followed suit, all eyes turning to me as my skin lit with a blush of pride and thanks.  
  


“On a final note, we’ve gone through some hard times the last few years – some of the greatest moments of my life have been paired with the worst. There are folk who should be sitting by our side who are missing, and people we didn’t expect to have with us. Tonight, I’d like to reserve a thought for those missing, my Ma and Da especially – and to say thank you to you all for celebrating the wedding of Jenny and Ian. So, if you could all raise your glasses to my beautiful, wonderful sister and my best friend and brother in law. To Jenny and Ian – Slàinte mhòr agus a h-uile beannachd duibh!”  
  


A resounding “Slàinte” to Jamie’s toast filled the room that felt almost restorative after the frenetic rush of the day. Finally, Ian stood to make the last of the speeches looking his usual calm, collected self.

 

“Weel, how the hell am I going to top those two?” He began, laughing into the microphone. “I’m not the best with speeches, so I’ll keep this short and sweet.”  
  


“Let’s hope yer weddin’ night doesn’t end up the same!” Angus again jeered from the back, throwing himself into a whooping set of giggles and casting the whole gazebo into hysterical laughter that barely settled after five minutes. Jenny looked as though she’d possibly tear his head off as she tried to suppress her own smirk.  
  


“I’ll save my retort for later when we’ve no witnesses Angus Mhor!” Ian answered as the laughter subsided.  
  


“As I was saying, I want to thank ye all for being here for Jenny and me as we finally managed to get ourselves down the aisle!” A hearty cheer followed, “To the lads - thank ye for everything an’ for standing up wi’ me today. The bridesmaids; Laoghaire, Ruth and Georgie, ye all look beautiful an’ I’m so grateful to ye for helping and standing beside my beautiful wife today. To my wee man, Jamie ye make us so proud to be yer Da and Mam and knowing we got to have ye here wi’ us made the day even more special.” Wee Jamie of course decided to add a hello and a wave to his father’s comment, leaving us all aww-ing at his sweet action.  
  


“To my now brother-in-law, James Fraser. Ye’ve been my best friend since we were weans, and it’s fair to say we didn’t always see eye to eye, but any grief we gave each other was always negated by the unbreakable bond between us. Ye are a great man, Jamie and I canna thank ye enough for the love ye have given to Jenny an’ me over the years.”  
  


Ian broke his speech for a moment to embrace Jamie who clapped his best friend on the back and spoke quietly words that made Ian smile with warmth.  
  


“To Claire, our baker extraordinaire. Ye saved us yesterday and I dinna think Jenny and me will ever be able to repay ye for the help. Most of ye dinna ken but our first cake collapsed, leaving Jenny and me wondering what we were going to feed ye greedy lot! - So, from Ashton Lane comes our baking angel, driving all the way up with Jamie to work tirelessly through the night to make us a new cake. We haven’t seen it yet, but I ken it’ll be outstanding.”    
  


Ian made a slight turn, held out his hand and pulled Jenny to her feet. They stood side by side, as they always had, staring with an intensity that could have burned down the room. “Finally, to my wife. Jenny Fraser Murray. My wife. God, how long have I waited to say that?” Jenny’s lip began wobbling slightly as a stray tear fell down her face. “Every nerve I felt this morning dissipated the moment I saw you this morning. We’ve been in each other’s lives for over two decades an’ I dinna ken how I got so lucky, but I thank God everyday for you and for every blessing you’ve brought to my life. Yer my heart, my soul an’ I love ye.” They kissed with a gentleness that had almost everyone in the gazebo sobbing.   
  
Ian raised his glass, toasted and beamed broadly from ear to ear as he shouted to his guests, “Now ladies and gents, it’s time for cake!”  
  


\------------>>>>>>\-------------  
  


Whenever I found myself in a moment of intense emotion or anticipation I always seemed to have the same feeling as though my heartbeat was so loud and strong I could feel it right down to my toes. Jenny and Ian stood before us, hands covering their eyes in excited anticipation. A low murmur of expectation ran wild like electricity, all waiting with almost baited breath. Throat thick, smile wide and chest pounding, Jamie nodded, signalling the removal of the screen. With a quick movement, I folded back the device to be met with a rapturous applause erupting around us.  
  


“And, open!”  
  


Jenny and Ian removed their hands in a swoop and I was sure that in that exact moment, I had never seen such awe and gratitude. They stood utterly dumbstruck, without a word between them. Ian’s mouth fell, gaping like a stunned goldfish. Jenny’s awe-filled gaze broke from the cake and landed on me, her dark eyes were brimming with tears.  
  


“Do you like it?” I tentatively asked, my heart still thrumming in my ears.  
  


A lone tear began its fall, cutting across her skin and dropping down to her chin. Her arms opened suddenly, pulling me into an embrace with a fierceness that caught me entirely off guard. Neither of us spoke a word, instead she held me tight and squeezed, pouring gratitude and love into the embrace. I held her back trying my very hardest not to burst into tears.  
  


Jenny moved back and placed a kiss on my cheek before uttering a wobbly, “There aren't words. There aren't.” Her eyes, rimmed red shone through tears, framed with a beautiful, beaming smile. I exhaled in relief, the exhaustion and worry falling from me like a cloak.  
  


Ian in turn took my hand in his, gripping it with his own look of astonishment and took a long moment before congratulating and thanking me for the cake. His words were laced with disbelief, stumbling out of his mouth.  “Amazing! It's…Claire it's spectacular! I mean - God Jenny I've seen nothing like it!”  
  


I grinned broadly in response, watching as he stepped around the cake to see each detail. Jenny stood for a moment longer and spoke quietly, brushing the remaining tears from her face. “I’m sorry, for the way I’ve spoken and if I came off -”  
  


“Jenny, you don’t -”  
  


“No, I do. I shouldn’t have spoken to ye like that - hell I shouldn’t have treat ye so poorly and it's a disgrace that I did. I hope it hasn't made ye think badly of me.”  
  


“I understand, really. You've had so much to deal with I have nothing but admiration for you. But I’ll say thank you anyway.” I broke the serious of the moment with a laugh that Jenny too caught. We grinned at one another, enjoying the moment of relief between us. I reached out a hand and swept away the tear marks from her face, trying to remove any trace.  
  


The photographer appeared not a moment later, asking to begin snapping pictures of the cake, Jenny and Ian. He snapped away happily, taking shots of the various elements of it, of Jenny and Ian looking intently and finally posing.  
  


Without my noticing Murtagh had appeared beside me.  
  


“Claire, I'm no’ a man of many words - but ye have a gift, and God knows you have blessed us with it. We’re lucky to have ye.” He placed a hand on my arm, squeezing lightly. My throat thickened with his words and tears burned harshly behind my eyes - heart filled with the sweetness of the sentiment. I managed to utter a thank you, smiling up toward his warm gaze.  
  


“Can I have the bakers please beside the cake?” The photographer asked, directing his glance toward myself and then to Jamie. Murtagh made a noise that I thought sounded like a short laugh as I stepped into the frame with Jamie, posing with the overnight feat of patisserie magic. We posed several times, together and with Jenny and Ian - all the while fighting my natural inclination to blink with the burst of blinding flash.  
  


Once they had finished, guests flooded over to the cake, snapping their own pictures and congratulating Jamie and I on such a feat. Several tears were shed, Mrs Fitz commenting on my skills as though they were a gift from the heavens. People hugged me, shook my hands and gave compliments flooded with such love I wasn’t sure how to respond with anything other than thank-yous.  
  


From my left a caterer appeared, handing me a long-handled pearl knife wrapped with a Murray tartan bow. A voice followed over the mic, letting all know that the new Mr and Mrs Murray would be cutting their cake. A task filled with symbolism, one of which would destroy the hours of work I’d put it, it was part of the ceremony of it all that promised Jenny and Ian to one another. I handed Jenny the knife, instructing her to cut the bottom tier; the strawberry and basil cake with the Madagascan vanilla buttercream. The photographer stood waiting in the wings, ready to capture the moment on film forever.  
  


\----------------->>>>>>>\-----------------  
  


The wedding cake had been cut, pieces boxed and given to each guest. Jenny had cuddled me again, Ian too, still uttering apologies and thanks. Lights had been turned down to a soft amber glow, and wee Jamie had been carried up to bed after a tearful goodnight to his parents. The night fell on us, ready to be danced away with smooth steps and wild abandon.  
  


Jenny and Ian had begun their first dance with all watching in romantic wonder, the same expressions on their faces; love, happiness, enjoyment, swaying along with the music. The incandescent voice of Nat King Cole drifted through the air, the medicine of his velvet chords divinely delivered as the soundtrack for the moment. They clasped hands and swayed, slowly and sweetly. No-one interrupted Jenny and Ian, leaving them alone in a crowded room to enjoy this one perfect dance.  
  


_“I love you, for sentimental reasons. I hope you do believe me, I’ll give you my heart…”  
  
_

I wondered where the song fit into their life together; which memory in their dozens of moments together did it define? Perhaps a first dance years ago, or heard on the radio one long Sunday afternoon? Whatever it was, they danced with it between them, peppered with sweet smiles and short kisses.  
  


The song wound to its end, and Jenny left Ian’s embrace to take Murtagh’s hand, pulling him to the dance-floor for the father daughter dance. Otis Redding sang his sweet blues, filling the room with a grainy voice filled with intent.

 

_“I’ll be the ocean so deep and wide, and catch all the tears whenever you cry. I’ll be the breeze after the storm is gone, to dry your eyes and love you all warm”  
  
_

Murtagh stepped with such carefulness, holding onto one another as though Jenny were her seven-year-old self, standing on Murtagh’s feet as he swept her across the dance floor. I wiped away tears as I watched, noting a dozen others doing the same thing. For all Murtagh was a rather sturdy looking gentleman, he held Jenny with an unbridled tenderness.  
  


Pressing a small kiss to Jenny’s forehead, they swayed into the final lines of the song and in their finish, were met with rapturous applause.  
  


\------------------  
  


The dancing had commenced not long afterward, and I found myself sitting with the stragglers watching as guests swayed, tapped, stepped and sang. Parents and children, friends, family and neighbours filled the floor, dancing with abandon and laughing with such vehement joy that I felt such a sudden pang in missing my own family.  
  


I’d clocked Fergus sitting watching the dance, a small sad expression covering his sweet boyish face. Jamie, of course, had already thought ahead and had come rushing over to take his sons hand to pulling him straight to the centre of the dance floor. I’d suddenly realised that for the first time in his life, Fergus had a parent to take his hand and dance with. No longer alone in the world, surrounded by faces of family and friends – with the best man for the job watching over him for the rest of his life.  
  


After a minute or two of dancing, they’d stopped and I’d wondered if the embarrassment of dancing with Dad had finally won over the silliness. Instead, Fergus walked straight toward me and stuck out his hand.  
  


“Do you want to dance?”  
  


I was struck suddenly dumb, my eyes wide and heartbeat thrumming harder to the music.

 

“I – Fergus – “I leant over to him, his face in line with my own. I didn’t want to disappoint the boy, but I didn’t want him to feel as though he had to ask me out of a guilt. “Do you want me to?”  
  


“Oui – please.” He nodded, smiling angelically before deciding that I had hesitated for long enough. Taking my hand in his own and pulled me to my feet, quickly stepping onto the dance-floor toward Jamie.  
  


By the time I’d taken the few steps onto the wooden floor, the song had changed again; this time to a disco-pop song that brought many bodies rushing onto the floor singing along with glee. The situation felt a little like being at a school dance and the boy who likes you asking his friend to ask you to dance on his behalf.  
  


Jamie stepped forward, meeting us with a shoulder wiggle that sent me into laughter. The three of us danced together, Fergus the better of the three of us without doubt. With each song change, the more hilarious the situation became. Jamie and Fergus headbanged to one another, their hair swishing furiously in the air until they both became dizzy with the motion. A slower song started and Fergus became entirely uninterested, leaving Jamie and I in the middle of the room surrounded by couples. He grabbed my hands, pulling them into the air and twirling me around and into his arms. We simply stepped around, my feet following his with no real rhythm or intention.  
  


“Were you too shy to ask my yourself, Fraser?” I whispered over the music, winking teasingly.  
  


“A wee bit,” He smiled shyly, swaying me softly in his arms, “Wasn’t sure you’d dance wi’ me!”  
  


“I’m not really a dancer - but for you I’ll make an exception.” Jamie smiled, and as we stepped, pulled me closer into his warmth.   
  


\--------  
  


We continued dancing, swaying in one another’s arms and laughing with abandon as Jamie span me around and shook his shoulders to the next song. After a while we’d decided to take our leave of the floor for a time; Jamie had taken on a rosy flush and my feet ached something terrible.     
  


Of course, the moment in which I’d picked up my glass and Jamie had gone to sit down to catch his breath, several members of his family cornered us both. Compliments came aplenty for the cake,  _“Stunning! Simply stunning!”_ said a rather frail looking third cousin, before hitting the arm of her equally aged husband and adding,  _“It’s the spitting image of Brian and Ellen’s wedding cake - God rest their souls…”_  
  


The others chimed into the conversation, saving it from a maudlin tone with cheerful anecdotes and questions about my work and just how on earth I’d managed to make the cake look so like the first. Jamie thankfully took over after the first five minutes of grilling, leaving me with the opportunity to finally take a drink. I listened to him, so enthused and proud to be able to bring something from his kitchen to his family. As he finished his sentence I handed him my glass, offering him some of the alcoholic nectar we both needed a little more of.  
  


I wasn’t sure how it happened, but as the conversation finally ended and we walked away, I noticed Jamie’s hand had been around my back. Had the action been so comfortable that I had simply dismissed it with pleasure?  
  


Rather than try to figure out the action, I promptly picked up another glass of wine and drank heartily.  
  


\---------------  
  


The DJ kept playing on with delight, all guests parading across the dance floor at various intervals; dad dances, children running wildly and flailing their arms and giggling bouts of swaying to songs of decades past and present.  
  


I’d continued to watch on with Jamie by my side before he’d been summoned by a waving arm across the room. My glass had been refilled again, and I’d finally abandoned my shoes under the table, my feet freed from their confines.  
  


As the last song ended, it quickly changed to one that caused Jenny’s head shoot straight up and begin looking wildly around the room. I wasn’t sure who she was looking for exactly but the answer soon revealed itself when Jamie started running toward her wildly shouting “Jenny! It’s the song! Jenny!” with childlike excitement.  
  


For some reason yet unknown, Tina Turner’s  _‘Proud Mary’_  held some significance to them both. They spoke the lyrics to one another seriously, most of the room watching their display with amusement. Both rolled their shoulders, moving their hands in rolling motions with the lyrics with the largest smiles across their faces. I imagined them to be small children again, standing in the Lallybroch living room dancing to their mother’s records. The sight was hilarious but so heart-warming that you couldn’t stop watching.  
  


As the song kicked into the verse, both began dancing wildly, spinning one another and shouting the lyrics at the top of their voices. Others quickly joined them on the dance floor, starting what was quickly becoming a mass dance. Fergus ran over to me again, pulling at my hand to guide me onto the dance-floor. We were all gathered under the lantern light, an electric atmosphere spinning around us filled with howls of laughter and off-key singing, dancing with utter abandon. My face ached as I sang, Fergus shimmying along with me until we’d become a large circle with Jenny, Ian, Jamie - and half of the rest of the immediate Murray/Fraser clan. Jamie’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he held a hand to his stomach, clutching it with shaking laughter. My heart beat in my ears and I felt so incredibly warm I thought I’d burn up on the spot. I wondered exactly how Jenny was managing it with the weight of her dress.  
  


The end of the song came too quickly, with whooping and shouting for it to be played again, stomping feet on the floor and clapping loudly in the air. With the spin of a record, it began again.  
  


\---------------------->>>>>>>\----------------------  
  


The night had drawn to a close. Jenny and Ian had left for a cottage a mile or two down the road to spend their wedding evening together in the bliss of being completely alone with one another. Most of the guests had left, other than a few stragglers who stood in the forecourt of the house waiting for the last cars to arrive to take them off into the night.  
  


We sat slumped in our seats, a glass of whisky in hand, simply enjoying the remainder of the evening. The lights were still dimmed, the lanterns still lit and the soft notes of a song I barely recognized played. We had done the impossible, and finally the night was ending. There was a lot to be done; to be cleared, and packed away but for us there wasn’t a care left. Our minds were tired, eyes dropping but our bodies continued. We had chatted for a moment about the wedding; how beautiful Jenny had looked; how handsome the boys had been in their kilts - a note to pass on my thanks to Jenny and Ian for my invitation.  
  


“They’ve waited long enough,” He’d answered, taking a sip of his drink. “And dinna be daft, Sassenach. We all wanted you here.”  
  


I’d blushed from his sentiment and shuffled in my seat with coy awkwardness. We had returned to the quiet, listening to the shuffling sounds around us and the sweet knowledge that we might relax - if only for a moment. Jamie closed his eyes at one point and I thought he might have fallen asleep. I watched his profile, the shape of his nose and his lips, down to his Adam’s apple that bobbed as he swallowed. His face had softened that he looked much younger than his years, almost a boy again. His chest rose and fell with the heaviness of slumber. I wondered what he was thinking, or perhaps dreaming.  
  


“Just thinking about everything and nothing, Sassenach.” He smiled, eyes still closed and I wondered exactly how he had read my thoughts. The silence returned, and again I thought he had fallen asleep. His voice came soft, speaking in the tones that one uses in the depths of the night, amidst the freedom of the stars and moonlight.

 

“I get a strange feeling of being so far behind that I don’t think I’ll ever catch up.” He took a deep breath, his chest rising hard and falling slowly. “It’s my dream, ken? To be here, God willing, with my wife and our kids. I’d give anything, Sassenach. I’d never cook another day in my life if it meant I got to have a family.”  
  


He sounded so resigned, and I wasn’t sure if I was worried or heartbroken. I knew the feeling - the one that settled in your chest so heavily that I couldn’t think of an exact way to fix it. I knew it so well it had woken me with heartbroken dreams, and fears of losing the little I had left.  
  


The music changed and the lush, velvet voice of Nat King Cole returned, adding the bittersweet soundtrack to our mutual melancholia.  
  


“Last one for tonight ladies and gents.” The DJ called across to us, to which Jamie waved a hand in recognition of his notice.  
  


My eyes drifted closed, mirroring my partner. I stayed still, just listening until I felt a hand on my own, squeezing my palm. Peering from beneath my lashes, Jamie looked at me with tender eyes and a tired smile to his mouth.  
  


“Do me the honour, Sassenach?”       
  


Jamie held out his hand and it took me a moment to consider his offer before I took it in my own. Hand in hand we stood and walked to the centre of the floor, our way lit by flickering light. We took position, feet standing mere inches apart, bodies pressed to the other. Jamie set our pace, leading me through the languid notes of the song. I could feel the thrum of his heart against my chest, the heat of his flesh penetrating the cotton of his shirt. We swayed, his hand splayed across my waist holding me firmly, my hand placed on the back of his neck where the neck of his shirt revealed the soft flesh of his back.             
       

He moved his feet in smooth motions across the floor, my feet chasing his with every step. We were toe to toe, holding one another as though we were unable to give the other even a moment's space. A feeling of absolute fullness fell graced me overwhelmingly. I felt strangely choked in realizing that tomorrow this would be over and I would likely never return to Lallybroch, nor find myself under starlit skies in Jamie’s arms.  
  


“Claire?” I hummed in reply, eyes closed as we swayed gently in one another’s arms. His confession was spoken quietly, but enough so that the words vibrated through his chest and straight into my own. “If we had never met, if I had gone my whole life without knowing you –” He paused, and I hummed again, “I would miss you more than I’ve missed anyone in my life.”  
  


In the seconds following his words, I was sure my heart would burst. I wasn’t sure I had ever wanted to hear those words from Jamie but now I had it was more heart-breaking than I thought it could be. We stopped swaying and stared at one another. Words tended to lie between us without action. Too many almost’s, too many if only’s.  
  


He moved first, gently with consideration and I followed. His mouth felt intoxicating, warm and soft and a thousand other feelings that couldn’t be described save to experience it oneself. And then without second thought, I brought my mouth to his again. I wanted him closer, as closer as I could possibly have him. Jamie’s hand reached under my hair below my ear, pulling my mouth to his and his thumb caressing my cheek. Suddenly I could see him, see us and his eyes revealed entirely more than any words between us would or could express. With his hand in mine, we left the floor.    

   

\------------------------>>>>>\------------------  
  


If eyes are the window to the soul, then lips are the same for the body. They are passion, soft with the promise of desire and sweetness to come.  
  


Our actions were furious and gluttonous to say the least. We had just made it through the house and up the stairs to his bedroom, fevered kisses pulling us to a stop several times. I had undone Jamie’s kilt and almost torn off his shirt with nimble fingers. He in turn had unzipped my dress, kissing down my neck and leaving my chest heaving with anticipation.  
  


“I want ye, Claire.” He paused, kissing me again with fervent desire, “I want ye so much I can scarcely breathe. Will ye have me?”  
  


“ _Yes,_ ” I panted, “Yes I’ll have you.”  
  


He lifted me right off my feet and into his arms, carrying me toward the bed and letting me fall with a soft bounce on the mattress. For a moment we lock eyes, enough for us to feel safe with one another. The sloppiness of drunk kisses did not appear, as though we had both sobered with the base desire to burn the night into our memories.  
  


Jamie began crawling over me, levelling himself across my body so we might kiss without obstruction. I felt my back arch in anticipation, knowing where the trailing mouth kissing up my calves would end. His fingers slipped under the band of my underwear and was as quickly disposed of as it had been put on. The first moan escaped my lips, urging him forward greedily. My head rocked against the pillow and hands fisted into the bed sheet below, fingers burning with the thrill. I felt myself choke on the very air I began gasping for, shouting Jamie’s name as finally the wave of climax hit.  
  


Jamie pressed short, soft kisses up my thighs and across my chest until finally, bruised lip against bruised lip and hot breath mingling, he pushed into me.  
  


My breathing became deeper, gasping for breath in an airless room. Jamie’s chest falling heavier. I wanted to pull him further into my body, as if to consume him. He thrust once, his gaze fixed on my face as it contorted with pleasure and relief. The burning desire in my chest, my hands, my entire being threw me deeper into the soaring perfection of the moment. I lost to himself, to him, moving without rational thought. The act felt intoxicating – as though if we were to part, to become only ourselves alone would throw us into a shivering darkness. I could hear Jamie’s noises, the rising vowels urging us forward, fingertips becoming flame and my nails clawing into his back as my body constricted around his. A gasp, moaning hard and fast and all at once the room falls away into a wave of hot and then absolute calm. I felt unable to think or speak, tingling from head to toe as though I were being pulled at from all sides.  
  


With a final searing kiss, his mouth stretched with a smile and his body collapsed beside me, his chest heaving with exertion. We lay in a haze, for how long I wasn’t sure, euphorically blinded by desire and exhaustion, until finally, the oblivion of sleep took us both.  
  


                                                      --------->>>>>\-------                                                                  

**TRANSLATIONS**

Une tele joie dans cuisine pour les autres – Such joy in cooking for others

Slàinte mhòr agus a h-uile beannachd duibh! – Great health and every good blessing to you!


	14. Home Is Where The Heart(ache) Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after the night before, what lies in wait for our bakers now they've crossed the line...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for the crazy long delay but my job is an intense one and I haven't had the luxury of much writing time!   
> Hope you all enjoy this next chapter and thank you for the masses of support you lot give me.
> 
> Bon appetit!

I lay in his embrace, his arm wrapped around my waist holding me almost flush against him, a leg hooked across his thigh and the other tangled with his. A dull, heavy ache spread from my groin into the very bones of me. I was battered and bruised, dead tired and above all else, content.   
  


In the light of the morning he could have been a boy of eighteen, so charming with his face softened with boyishness. His hair lay against the pillow, a burning halo with tendrils falling across his forehead. His lips were swollen a little, the creases of his mouth raised in a small smirk of a smile. He moved a little, the bed creaking beneath his weight. Without thought, I indulgently reached out and ghosted my fingertips across his cheekbones and jaw.  His skin was warm beneath my fingertips, a shadow of dark stubble raised coarse across his jaw like fine sandpaper. His long neck lay against the pillow, his Adam’s apple poking out beneath the surface of his skin. Small red marks peppered his collarbones and I shamefully blushed as though I were a teenager again, leaving love bites on the neck of a boyfriend. I could smell him now, not the scent of his cologne but the warmth of him.   
  


One by one, peeking up at me beneath his dark lashes, he blinked heavily and saw me.   
  


“Hello.” His voice was thick with the remains of sleep, but his eyes lit as though the sun had just shone into a dark room, illuminating the space and casting out the shadows.   
  


“Hello.” I replied, heart fluttering wildly like the wings of a hummingbird.   
  


His hand moved from across my body, fingertips trailing softly until he gently cupped my face, “Just wanted to check.”   
  


“Check what?”   
  


Jamie brushed back a tendril of my hair from my face, gazing at me in blinding adoration. “That yer still here.”  
  


I turned and kissed the palm of his hand, lacing my fingers into his. He sighed, smiled contentedly and moved himself a little closer so that all but mere inches lay between us. I wasn’t sure what crossed his mind in that time, his expression for once felt unreadable. But in the time that followed I found myself with only one thought coming to mind, ‘So this is what it feels like....’  
  


\----------------------------------------  
  


When I woke again, Jamie was gone. The bed where he had been lay warm beneath my fingertips, an assurance that he had not long left. Sitting upright, I pulled the sheet up around me and looked across the room, taking in the sight of our strewn clothing pooled across the floor.   
  


“Morning, Sassenach.”   
  


Jamie’s voice came from the door cheerily, surprising me. He stood looking like some a damned model, clad in his blue jeans and a grey fisherman’s knit jumper wearing a broad smile across his face. My eyebrows raised sharply in surprise.   
  


He rubbed the back of his neck, staring down at the tray with a new nervousness I hadn’t seen before; “I wasn’t sure what ye liked so I hope it’s okay...”  
  


If I hadn’t already been sitting I’d have fallen over, I was sure of it.  
  


I eyed him with surprise. I hadn't ever gotten breakfast in bed, not once. Not even Frank, despite months of dating, had so much as brought me a cup of coffee while I’d gotten ready in the morning. And yet here was Jamie, beautiful and shy smiled, bringing me breakfast after a night together.   
  


“Jamie this is - perfect.” I breathed, still quite in awe while he slumped in relief.   
  


Crisp slices of white bread toasted to a golden brown sat slathered with butter, stacked high with an accompanying pot of homemade jam, a blissful blackberry colour bursting with lumps of fruit and oozing sweet sugar. Hulled scarlet strawberries sat in a porcelain bowl beside a steaming and rather inviting mug of coffee, served black as I liked it.   
  


“Go ahead, Sassenach. No need to wait.” He assured me. I eyed him before reaching for the coffee, the warmth chasing the chill from my hands. I took a hesitant sip, still watching him before sighing with pleasure and taking another. I plucked up a piece of toast from the stack and sunk my teeth into it, the butter oozing with each bite.   
  


“I’ll leave ye to it, Sassenach. Don’t need me hangin’ over ye.” He stood with hesitancy, while I half jumped up out of the bed to stop him.   
  


“No!” I shouted, mouth still full, the cup wobbling on the tray while the plate clinked dully against the mug. “I mean - I don’t mind your company.” He looked a little taken back, as if he hadn't expected me to welcome his company for much longer, let alone share breakfast with him. Jamie hesitantly walked back over and sat down at the bottom of the bed. I’d not seen him look so timid in all the time I’d known him.  
  


I motioned my hand between him and the plate in a gesture that read ‘please, eat.’   
  


“Are ye sure? I mean it is yers, I did make it for ye.” He was half mumbling with nervousness and I would have laughed had I not found it so terribly endearing.  
  


“Have breakfast with me.” I said, pushing the plate toward him with encouragement. This was rather less of a request, more of a command.   
  


With a short nod of agreement he folded himself around my form like a rather large ginger cat, picked up a strawberry and bit into it. I watched him eat it far more intently than I should’ve, watching his mouth as he ate. When he took another bite of crimson flesh, a stray droplet of juice falling to the corner of his mouth, I thought he might burst into flames as he licked it away.   
  


Jamie caught my stare and looked down at his jumper expectantly. In seeing nothing there, he furrowed his brow quizzically at me.   
  


“Nothing,” I bit into the toast again, bidding the burn of desire to extinguish. “You’re quite fine.”   
  


\--------------------

  
We continued to talk, slowing our eating and sharing the mug of coffee between us. The strawberries had been sweet, lacking the tartness of such an early pick, and the jam had been nothing short of delectable. Made with marble sized Sloe berries and scarlet apples, and swirled with warming cinnamon to chase away the bitterness of the berry, I’d heaped teaspoonfuls onto my toast. I hadn’t been shy in lick away the deep plum coloured residue from my fingers, noticing Jamie’s own gaze pinned to me as I’d done so.   
  


Jamie finally excused himself after we’d finished, picking up the dishes and heading back downstairs to get breakfast ready for the boys, allowing me some time to get ready. He’d offered me the use of his shower, and had taken the time to pick up a pair of jeans from the guest room dresser to spare me the indignity of doing a tiny walk of shame across the floors of his house.   
  


I crawled out of the comfortable haven and wobbled to the dresser to get ready as quickly as I could. My legs ached, as did my back, and with each step the tenderness I felt between my thighs only heightened. I finally caught a look of myself in the mirror and goodness, what a sight I was. Dark streaks of mascara lay under my eyes, my dark locks resembling a tumbleweed rolling across the desert planes. I looked tired and it was laughable, but under it was a resound contentment of a shag well shagged - if I was to be honest with myself. I had red marks right across my stomach and my thighs, each spot a burning point on a constellation of Jamie’s kisses and caresses.   
  


I skipped the shower, too tired to even attempt it and instead chose to dress quickly. In a quick scan of the room, I had spotted my underwear slung quite shamelessly over an antique chest across the room like I was in a bad romcom. Slipping on my jeans and the oversized grey woollen jumper Jamie had left for me, I found my mind wandering back to the few times I’d ever woken after a one-night stand. The difference was, to say the least, monumentally different to the one I’d found myself in with Jamie. I’d awoken each time paying no mind to my bedfellow, picked up my clothes and headed out of the door into a taxi without so much as a  _“Cheers for the shag!”_.  My head had always ached from copious amounts of alcohol, my stomach grumbled with a desperate need for hot, buttered toast and a cup of tea. An itch has been scratched, and that had really been that.   
  


But this, oh was this different. I’d been taken down and dusted so thoroughly, so wonderfully and with such care that I was sure I’d be walking oddly for at least another two days. We’d woken, together. He’d brought me breakfast that we’d eaten, together. And he’d brought me new clothes… Different seemed an understatement in really thinking about it. Even Frank hadn’t done half of those -   
  


The thought stilled me.

  
**Frank.  
**

I hadn’t so much as spared a thought for him, not one. I hadn’t cared to. Someone who I’d claimed to love had been willingly cheated on and was waiting back in Glasgow with no answers. I’d ignored him completely, run off into the highlands and enjoyed myself at a wedding filled with strangers who felt more like family now, and had made love with a man who was supposed to be a friend and my partner...

  
There, in that single thought was the answer that knocked the world off its axis.   
  


I’d made love to Jamie.  
  


I’d made love to Jamie - and felt no guilt.   
  


I’d made love to Jamie - and I wouldn’t ever take it back, not even for Frank.

 

With a large huff of breath I sat back onto the bed, eyes wide and mouth agape.   
  


_“Fuck.”  
  
_

\----------->>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>\-----------  
  


After hiding upstairs in the bedroom, contemplating the situation and trying to make sense of the new feelings that had appeared seemingly overnight, I’d found myself wandering around the house and peering into the many rooms of the house. As with all old houses, Lallybroch seemed to have been gradually made bigger as time had passed. An extension here, a room halved until it had been left in its current plan. The ceilings were far higher than I had thought. Though dark, the long windows of the house lit even the furthest corners of the room.   
  


Quite by accident I’d found myself in the library, with bookshelves built to the ceiling from deep oak wood turned dark with time. Each wall had been decorated with painted wallpapers, silk beneath the fingertips, edged with lines of rich gold and the deepest blues. Birds flew across paintings, soaring high into the captured images of the lands around us.   
  


The red fabric spines of books stood soldier like, each embossed with their titles in gold and almost as perfect as the day they had been purchased. Volumes in English and Latin stood in their dozens, and when I had stepped closer the distinctive smell of old books had become so delightfully overwhelming I felt myself swooning a little. Newer Chesterfield furniture sat beneath the towering cases, nestled comfortably in nooks for the reader to enjoy a little time alone with words undiscovered. When I’d passed the Laird’s desk, the marks of time passed had been worn into the face of the wood like grains. I’d found immense pleasure in seeing small initials carved into the corners of the desk, wondering who had braved the ire of the Laird to leave their mark.   
  


I’d finally settled in seat by the window, listening to the soft white noise sound of the rain, soothing and constant. I could hear the trickling noise of the water falling off the stone windowsills above, a small stream building across the cobbles. A short distant rumble of thunder echoed around Lallybroch set the rest of the scene. There were no disruptions of the modern world here, no distractions - just gentle quiet.    
  


In this quiet, though, my thoughts grew louder.   
  


Frank was appearing at the forefront of my mind each time I emptied it. I was mad at him still, furious even. He had lied, and worse yet he had tried to have me abandon Jamie. So I had ignored him for days - all messages and calls unanswered. Perhaps worse yet I had fallen into Jamie’s arms so willingly that I had all but forgotten about any tie to him…   
  


I placed my head into my hand and closed my eyes, trying to envision how I might even begin to approach the mess I’d left behind, let alone actually face Frank Randall.   
  


“There ye are, Sassenach.”  
  


Jamie’s voice came from behind me, striking away all thought of Frank once more. He looked relieved to see me, to see that I was actually still here. I felt myself wanting to reach out to him to bring him closer - to chase away the chill that had suddenly crept into my bones.  
  


“Sorry, I started wandering…” My voice trailed off, choked with a dozen excuses in my trying to avoid potential confrontation of my feelings. Jamie of course waved it away nonchalantly and walked almost carefully toward me before stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets.    
  


“The boys want to go for a walk and I want to get out myself -”   
  


I felt my heart sink the moment he’d finished his sentence, hitting the pit of my stomach with a heavy thump.  “I can go - it’ll - I can get a taxi -”   
  


As the words came falling out of my mouth incoherently, my reaction seemed to have alarmed him somewhat. He immediately shook his hands in a ‘no’ motion and strode toward me.   
  


“No!” He wrapped his hand around the top of my arm, holding me securely; “I wanted to ask ye to come wi’ me!”  
  


His words came rushing like water through a broken dam, my own meeting his with a similarly rushed surprise;  “Are you sure? I don’t want to encroach on your time with Fergus and Jamie.”   
  


Jamie took a stride toward me, standing so close I could feel his breath across my flushing cheeks. “Come wi’ me, Sassenach?”

 

My words didn’t come, instead a simple nod and a smile followed. He looked relieved, rocked back on his heels and shouted through the doors for the boys to grab their raincoats.  
  


I knew I should leave, say no and leave for Glasgow to find Frank and try to make sense of the situation. And yet, there I remained.   
  


\------------>>>>>\----------  
  


A whole caravan of us ending up leaving the house; Jamie and I, the boys and one of the Lallybroch dogs, a rather beautiful spotted Border Collie by the name of Elphin. Suited and booted against the rain, Jamie had taken one look at my less than waterproof jacket, shaken his head in dismissal and had picked out a hooded black Barbour jacket I assumed belonged to Jenny. As Jamie had gotten his own Barbour from the peg, Fergus had pointed out much to his amusement that we matched and looked quite the couple. We both were burning with embarrassment at the scene but Jamie quite playfully laughed it off.   
  


“Weel, least we’ll be a pair ey?” He’d said, before pulling the hood of the jacket up over my ears and hair leaving just my face exposed to the elements. “And I canna have ye struck down wi’ a fever, Sassenach. We’ve a competition to win.”   
  


Something else I’d conveniently forgotten while I’d been wrapped up in my Lallybroch shaped bubble - the bloody competition still had to be entered.   
  


\--------------  
  


The boys soon lost interest in walking with us, preferring to rush ahead a few feet to enjoy their muddy freedom. The earthy scent of petrichor saturated the air, giving the weather an element of comfort. The grass glistened beneath our feet, a low fog lying heavy across the hills in the distance, laden with rain and cold that bit at my fingertips leaving them a glowing poppy red.There was a freedom to this land that was absolutely unparalleled. The Frasers had lived here for generations among the rolling hills and mountains sprawling wild across the horizon. This land was as much part of them as they were of it. 

 

Jamie and I walked together, our bodies almost pinned to one another with every step down the twists and turns of the lane. We talked about everything and nothing; the wedding, the weather, the boys and the competition. Our original training plan sat in place, it would just be getting back to the kitchen to rehearse and then prepare our entry submission. It was mere weeks away and we had hardly practiced - though the wedding cake had seemed a colossal enough effort in itself to be considered to be intense training.   
  


After a short time we approached a clearing in the lane, opening off onto the boundary of a large grassed area surrounded by woodland. Armed with a ball for Elphin, Fergus and wee Jamie had rushed off to play.   
  


“Dinna go too far!” Jamie had called after them, before turning to me with an expression that read  _‘we need to have THAT talk.’_  
  


He began, and I took a heavy intake of breath that I held in my chest tightly. “I ken last night was… complicated. It wasn’t…” He stumbled, kicking the ground beneath his feet. “It did mean something to me.”   
  


I was struck so hard by his words I felt entirely numbed by his honesty. I wasn’t sure that I’d expected the response Jamie had given.   
  


“But I ken you’re with Frank and I’m not trying to change that,” He swallowed, looking once again at the ground and then back to me. “I just wanted to be honest with you.”   
  


The softest, most compassionate look crossed his face that made me want to hold him so impossibly tight I doubted I would let go. I hadn’t expected him to leave the decision at my feet - to place our next move in my hands. There wasn’t any pressure or expectation, just honesty and respect.   
  


I stepped forward to him and placed a chilled hand on his chest, the rain trickling down into my sleeves.   
  


“Thank you,” I smiled a little, “I want to think, okay?”

His hand moved to cover mine, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m in no rush, Sassenach. Just being able to be your partner is enough.”   
  


honesty that had presented itself until the voice of Fergus came howling from ahead of us.  
  


“Da!” he hollered in a panic, his face lit with a raspberry coloured panic, “Da! Wee Jamie’s trying to eat snails!”   
  


\-------------------->>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>\-------------------  
  


After narrowly avoiding having a collection of snails meet their untimely end, we turned the caravan around and headed back up toward the house. Wee Jamie was now under strict supervision, much to his displeasure. Jamie held onto his hand as he quite loudly made his annoyance known, leaving Jamie and Fergus looking sheepish with expressions of horror and apology.

 

We returned to the house in almost no time, Jamie sitting wee Jamie in the living room and asking Fergus with the tired parental exhaustion if he wouldn’t mind watching wee Jamie while he made lunch. Fergus, bless his heart, had agreed without hesitation and had taken wee Jamie’s little hand, offering to help him build a fortress on the living room floor. A shower of cushions and blankets were haphazardly scattered across the floor as construction began, leaving Jamie and I alone together.   
  


\-------  
  


From one task to another, Jamie began constructing a lunch for the boys. He always a picnic in these situations, he hold me. I was reminded myself of eating tooth-achingly sweet Baklava, diamond cut and perfumed with honey with Uncle Lamb in Greece as a child. He prepped away, plating the old favourites of every adult and child alike. Little pots of yogurt filled with too much sugar, chocolate digestive biscuits and ruby apples peeled and sliced into thick pieces. White bread ham sandwiches were lovingly cut into stout triangles and stacked high around a pile of cheese and onion crisps. Jamie’s eyes caught mine fleetingly and I could hardly suppress the grin from watching him.   
  


He disappeared for a little while and returned shirt askew, his already unruly auburn locks looking more windswept than usual.   
  


“Did you hit high winds when you got up there?” I inquired sarcastically.   
  


“Apparently I didna ken the password,” He said, re-buttoning his shirt and awkwardly smoothing his hair with his hands, “which meant I had to be tortured!”  
  

I breathed a laugh, my eyes following him as he crossed the room, plucking a low sided frying pan from a far off cupboard.  
  


“Might I tempt ye with an omelette, Sassenach?” Jamie grinned, holding up the pan in the air. In almost comic timing my stomach growled embarrassingly causing Jamie to snigger loudly. “Weel, that answers that then!”   
  


He set about his task; opening one of the Aga lids, setting down the pan and adding a large lump of golden yellow butter into the center of the pan. One by one he cracked four rather large brown farmhouse eggs onto the buttery face of the pan, twisting salt and pepper onto the whites before whisking.  
  


“Do ye ken, Sassenach, one of the first things I learned at the academy was to cook an omelette?” Jamie recalled, looking over his shoulder to me. “Our tutor said you could tell a good chef from a great chef by their omelette.”   
  


I wandered to stand beside him, watching his hands as he stirred the mixture in figures of eight. There was always a level of fascination that came with watching him work, seeing how he approached his task and carried it out. He had a gentleness with food, a respect for his ingredients even down to the simplest of food stuffs, one that I had grown to admire with such fondness and pride.   
  


When he’d finished, the omelette lay golden in the pan, folded into a large half and dashed with the grains of ground black peppercorns. Two plates appeared, the omelette halved and placed onto the face of each.   
  


“Bon appetit, Sassenach.”   
  


I hadn’t even time to say thank you before he’d taken a large bite and begun wandering over to rest against the opposite countertop. I followed, taking a bite as I walked and was immediately struck at how in the hell the man had managed to work wonders with eggs and butter. It was cooked to a pillowy perfection, the eggs soft and rich with butter, salt and pepper balanced perfectly. Not greasy, but light and delicious. I made a rather audible noise of enjoyment, taking another mouthful before I’d even reached him.   
  


“You’ve just got to be good at bloody everything, don’t you?” I teased, squinting my eyes at him. He smiled as though he’d won a victory before cutting into his share with his fork, spearing a piece and speaking with a warm confidence.   
  


“For you, Claire? Nothing but the best.”   
  


  
\----------------------->>>>>>>>\------------------  
  


But with all things, there has to be an end.   
  


We had eaten together and returned upstairs to see the boys only to be met with a battle cry and a fight on our hands. It seemed to be us against Fergus and Jamie, and I found myself doubled with laughter for the majority of the fight.   
  


“Fee-fi-fo-fum!” Jamie thundered, stomping around the camp dramatically  leaving wee Jamie squealing with delight as he played along, “I smell the blood of a wee Scottish-man. Be he ‘live, or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!”   
  


Jamie had swung down onto the floor, scooping out wee Jamie from the fort, his tiny feet kicking in the air wildly. He was turned upside down in my Jamie’s arms, squealing and giggling shouting his best protest through his laughter.   
  


“What shall we do wi’ him, Sassenach? Shall he live? Or should we bake him into a cake?”   
  


I crept forward, pulling faces and wiggling my fingers near wee Jamie’s bare abdomen. “I think we should… bake him into a cake!”   
  


My fingers tickled the soft flesh of his stomach, sending the small boy into manic giggles that left tears welling in my eyes and my chest aching with my own laughter. He shrieks grew wilder, his tiny milk teeth chattering hard as I took him from Jamie, sat him on my knee and tickled him with a renewed fervour.   
  


“Yer not gettin’ away so easy mon fils!” Jamie called, triggering Fergus to bolt to his feet, holding his hands in the air, laughing himself with a wheeze.   
  


We all continued laughing, steadily and heartily. Jamie and I settled into the fort, listening to Fergus tell us the jokes we had heard as children, bubbling with laughter as he imitated his teachers. We all listening in awe as my Jamie, ever the storyteller, began his own enchanting stories of water horses and fairy folk. I took my own turn, regaling them with my adventures across Egypt as a teenager; of the sunsets across the nile, snapping crocodiles and the treasure filled tombs of the Pharaohs and their Queens.   
  


I hadn’t quite noticed that late afternoon had fallen until the chime of the clock by the doorway came, a dull and echoing noise that filled the room. In my arms wee Jamie slept, his soft snores uninterrupted. He’d climbed into my arms, laying his head against my shoulder as Jamie had regaled us. A small terror by day, he had such a sweet face and looked almost angelic as he slept. He had the same weighty softness all small children have as they sleep, giving a person the same need to hold them while they dream; drawing gentle, comforting patterns across their backs and careful all the while not to wake them.   
  


I held him tight for a while while Jamie and Fergus silently cleared the room, dismantling the fort and restoring order to the kingdom. Jamie had taken wee Jamie from me and carried him upstairs, his small body looking even smaller in the arms of his Uncle. I’d followed behind, knowing that my time at Lallybroch had finally come to its end, and I would need to ready myself for my departure.   
  


\-----------  
  


Packing hadn’t taken any time at all, each item placed into my weekend bag beside the memories now attached to each garment. I’d called a taxi without Jamie’s knowledge, trying to excuse myself without causing any further delay. I had enjoyed myself; enjoyed being with the boys, at the house and more importantly enjoyed spending time with Jamie. But this was not my home, my land or my family. I may have been a guest, but I remained a stranger still in this house.   
  


When I’d finally descended the staircase, I felt the sharp sting of downheartedness. I would commit the house to memory, remember it for its beauty and history, the madness and magic I’d witnessed. Jamie greeted me fondly before eying my bag and allowing the dawning shadow of realisation to cross his face.  
  


The honk of a car horn interrupted us, cutting through the rain and the soft silence of the house. Fergus shot over to the window, trying to see down across the lawns to the archway.   
  


“I think it’s a taxi?” Fergus said, standing up onto his tiptoes to lean further into the window.   
  


“Yer leaving, Sassenach?”   
  


The mere sound of his voice and expression on his face was almost enough to make me drop everything and stay; to throw all caution, all other ties to the wind. He stood so abruptly that a touch might have knocked him back into his seat.   
  


“I think it’s probably best I get going. It’s a bit of a way back home and -”

 

“- I would’ve dropped ye back at the station, Claire. I wouldn’t have minded -”   
  


I cut him off, shaking my head in polite disagreement. I’d known this would not be an easy moment, having to walk away carrying the emotional ties that were growing stronger by the second.   
  


“I know - but I had to leave... eventually.” The words betrayed me, sounding far sadder than I had wanted them to. “You’ve got to take care of the boys, it’s easier this way.”  
  


The car horn sounded impatiently again, causing me jolt. I began walking toward the door, the floor creaking heavily beneath me as though it were saying its own goodbye. Fergus sprinted from the window, standing beside the door with a matching look of disappointment on his face. He took down the coat I’d worn two days ago from the hook beside Jamie’s, holding it open for me to step into. I dropped my bag to the floor, put on the jacket and turned to find myself in his embrace. His arms stretched around my waist, locked behind my back. I held him back, placing my chin against his head.   
  


“You keep practicing okay? No ignoring school.”   
  


Fergus stepped back a little, giving me a charmingly cheeky look, filled with a youthful overconfidence; “Oui! I know, I know!”   
  


“Don’t forget I’ll see you in Gleneagles okay? And keep your Dad out of trouble?” I gripped his arm reassuringly and was promptly caught completely off guard as he stood on his toes and kissed my cheek.   
  


With an age and soberness to his voice far beyond his years, he asked one last thing of me, “S’il vous plait, ne soyez pas un etranger?” I nodded, before sharing one last brief smirk and a wink.   
  


I turned to Jamie finally, Fergus wandering off to warm his hands near the crackling embers of the fire.   
  


He looked as sad at my leaving as I felt. Leaving was the only real option available, the only one that left me with the chance to have a moment to think about the night before, about Jamie - and God, about Frank.   
  


I opened my mouth to speak, to begin a goodbye masked with contentment and ease but he beat me to it, voice wavering a little.   
  


“Suppose this is goodbye, Sassenach.”  His usual steady gaze was heavy, so much so I could barely stand to look at him and chose instead to take him into my arms and hold him tight. When words would not come, actions would suffice. His arms moved to my back, pulling me close, hands covering my waist. I was still burning and so was he, and despite the heaviness in my heart, it fluttered at being pressed against him. The memories of lust, of want and need were blurring with the desire to be just cared for by him.   
  


“You call or text when you’re home, aye?” His chest reverberated against mine with the thrum of his words. I could only think to nod and blink in answer.   
  


With a final squeeze, I stepped away from him, picked up my bag and turned to face the cold of the courtyard leaving an ashen faced Scotsman in my wake.

 

\------------>>>>\---------  
  


I watched out of the window until the sight of Jamie, Fergus and Lallybroch completely disappeared from view, leaving me with a hollow feeling sinking deep in my chest.   
  


The voicemails I’d received were from the same three people; the restaurant had called saying that while they didn’t appreciate having me leave so suddenly, they were pleased I was at least taking a little personal time. Suzette had called twice, asking if I was enjoying myself and demanding I tell her all when I got home. The second had been a short message about Frank.  
  


_“Claire, Frank came to the restaurant today asking - well more so demanding to know your whereabouts. He’s fairly angry at you ignoring him, but he’s concerned too - I think. I convinced him you had to leave suddenly for work and that you’d be home soon. Please, call the man when you can?”_   
  


I wanted to dismiss what she’d said, the niggling anger at his lies still hanging over my mind but she was right. Frank would want to know why in the hell I hadn’t told him that I would be disappearing for two days without word. He would ask, no, rather he would demand answers. Why had I run away? Why had I run off with Jamie Fraser of all people? He would expect an apology from me, a promise that I wouldn’t do something like it again. I’d feel like a school child being chided by their parent. I wondered if I would tell him immediately that I had slept with Jamie? That amidst the warmth of the wedding, surrounded by laughter and love, I had fallen into his arms and  more importantly into his bed. That despite the months of being with Frank, I’d felt more in mere weeks with Jamie.  
  


Huffing with frustration, I pressed three to continue and finally listened to the messages Frank had left, each more irate than the last.   
  


_“Claire when you get this, please call. It’s Frank.”  
  
_

“ _Claire, it’s Frank - why aren’t you answering the phone or my messages?”  
  
_

_“Claire this isn’t funny. You’ve disappeared off the face of the earth and you’re clearly ignoring me. Call me back as soon as you get these messages.”  
  
_

_“Claire for fucks sake will you pick up the phone, what the hell have I done to deserve this?!”  
  
_

I promptly hung up the call, threw my phone into my back and leaned my head against the headrest.   
  


_‘Fuck it’ I thought, ‘He’s waited this long, he can pissing well wait a bit longer.’  
  
_

\------------->>>>>>>>\---------  
  
  
I kept my eyes closed for the majority of the journey back to the station, the driver kindly turning down the radio in an attempt to let me sleep.  
  


With each bump in the road I’d become more agitated, until finally I’d turned my thoughts to the last few days; to Jamie and Lallybroch. I knew I had to return to my own home, to my own reality and face what I had left behind - but Lord, if the sense of wishing I hadn’t so much as stepped foot off the Fraser land was suffocating.   
  


\------------

 

A pile of post sat waiting on my door mat as I was greeted with the stale cold of an uninhabited house.   
  


The red light on the landline phone shone bright with the promise of another dozen unanswered, demanding voicemails. I’d have to sort through it all at some point, but for the moment my only thoughts led me straight to my own bed. I shuffled into my bedroom, picking out clean pyjamas and changing into them before climbing in between the cold sheets, causing me shiver uncontrollably for several minutes.   
  


My eyes drifted across the room, looking at the objects I’d placed on shelves and across surfaces until finally they stopped on Jamie’s jumper. I blankly stared, thinking only of the image of him for a moment.  Jamie’s embrace still lingered like a burn against my flesh, the look as I left him behind seared behind my eyes.

 

As though the devil himself were watching me, my phone sounded. His name lit like a glowing brand, a spirraling rush of hot adrenalin spreading through my veins as I opened his message.   
  


**From: Jamie Fraser  
To: Claire Beauchamp**   
_Just wanted to say goodnight, Sassenach. And check you got home safe? You promised to message and I got a wee bit concerned (and aye I know you’re a grown lass!) I’ll see you soon, sleep well x_

I stared at the phone, trying to pluck up the courage to send a reply. The text bubble appeared and disappeared from his end several times before again, it sounded.  
  


**From: Jamie Fraser  
To: Claire Beauchamp**   
_P.S - Thank you, Claire. For caring, for being here… You’re an extraordinary woman. x Jamie  
  
_

I felt tears prick my eyes and my throat thicken. Several more moments passed before I managed to type out a reply, my mind swirling with thoughts of tomorrow, of confrontations and the door Jamie had left wide open, ready for me to step through should I wish it.   
  


**From: Claire Beauchamp  
To: Jamie Fraser**   
_Just got home a little while ago - sorry if I worried you. I’m safe in bed so you can rest easy…  I’ll call you tomorrow? Sweet dreams Jamie x  
  
_

The message was gone and the same heavy feeling I’d felt saying goodbye to Jamie at Lallybroch got infinitely worse. There was no escape from making a decision, and it was becoming increasinly apparent that I would need to make one sooner rather than later.   
  


For the last time, I picked up my phone to send one final message before turning out the light.   
  
  
 **From: Claire Beauchamp**  
 **To: Frank Randall**  
 _I’m home._  
  


 

 

\-------

 

Translations: 

**“S’il vous plait, ne soyez pas un etranger?”**   - Please, do not be a stranger.


	15. Chapter Nine - Reasoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire returns to Gleneagles and seeks solace in her kitchen. With a little help from her friends, will she get the answers she's looking for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for the comments, kudos and for reading. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, it was a bit of a difficult one to write!   
> Bon appetit!  
> Love - S x

 

 

Once, many years ago, when I’d been trawling through the Parisian concrete jungle, I made the acquaintance of a grey haired, stoop shouldered baker by the name of Antonio Galland. He’d found me tapping on the bottom of one of his loaves, the golden crust like a drum skin. When I’d met his gaze with embarrassed eyes, Antonio had smirked, and commented that he’d never seen a woman knock on his buns as I had. I’d laughed, returned a comment to suit and from then we’d fallen into a strange sort of friendship.   
  


Late afternoons in Parisian sunshine were spent discussing everything food and drink that Paris might offer. He’d offered stories of times long gone, and in return I offered him my own. We had met a dozen times before I had seen him last - the day before I returned to English shores.   
  


With a wink and a smile over a brioche dough, he’d passed on wisdom he said hadn’t ever steered him wrong.   
  


_“Claire, une table est plus qu’un meuble, et la nourriture est plus du carburant.”_

“But of course!” I’d laughed, a table is far more than a piece of furniture, and food is far more than fuel! A table filled with the right people could become the centre of the universe - of your universe, even if only for a short time during the day. It could become a spot for long conversations, for laughter and sharing company with those new and old. A hearth, burning with warmth. Food was more than a simple discussion point amidst a lengthier conversation. A plate was an instrument of storytelling, of love and desire. Sinking your teeth into such foods that memories are conjured that take us back to moments held dear, or to things long forgotten.  
  


I’d left the bakery heavy hearted, placing his comment beside the advice Vianne had given me years before; that good could, and always would, fuel the heart.   
  


Somewhere in the last five years I’d forgotten a little of that notion I’d held so dearly, and in the last three weeks, it seemed it was all I could think about.  
  


                                         ————–>>>>>>>———–  
  


It had been a long twenty-four hours to say the least. I had slept restlessly, had woken several times and stared at the shadows on my ceiling, making patterns and faces.  
  


I’d arrived in the restaurant by seven am to smiling faces and good mornings from my fellow chefs, hoping I felt better after my absence. I’d given at least a dozen thank yous and had only just escaped a lengthy conversation with one of the Pantry Chef’s before I’d finally found Suzette. She was one of the best chefs I’d ever met, with a passion, drive and intensity I’d found in no-other.  
  


In the very moment she’d noticed me behind her, I’d walked straight into her arms and cuddled her, suppressing the desire to start sobbing against her shoulder the moment she’d squeezed me back. She held me for a time, stroking my back as I had done with wee Jamie only a day ago. I felt almost ridiculous, but I knew she would reserve any and all judgement.  
  


“You didn’t want to leave, did you?” Suzette asked, still holding me against her sweetly scented clementine coloured cardigan. I’d shaken my head against her shoulder, relishing in the solidness of my best friend. She’d stepped back, placed her hands either side of my face and smiled with tender comfort, “Start from the beginning, mon chou.”  
  


Through my getting ready for service and our prep, I’d regaled her with the story of the weekend; of almost kisses with Jamie, Lallybroch and the wedding, of meeting Fergus and of the taxi ride home where I’d finally taken the plunge and listened to Frank’s messages. She’d listened, nodding her head in the right places while she began her preparation for the 6pm service. I’d owned up to the fact that I had not been able to call Jamie back, nor had I spoken to Frank since I’d told him I’d returned. I’d conjured up the nerve to text Jamie when I’d pulled up into the hotel carpark, telling him I needed to get through my shift and I’d speak with him soon about the competition – and that I hoped he understood. Of course, he’d immediately replied, his words full of assurance that he would be waiting should I need him, and that he hoped service went well. Frank, on the other hand, had not so much as spoken a whisper in my direction. It seemed he was now taking his own turn in ignoring me.  
  


Once I had regaled her, it seemed that the conversation was over until service had ended. I focused all attention now into my work, channelling all thoughts and actions into composing the symphony that was our menu as we did every night. Through calls of “Yes Chef!”, the banging of pans and machinery, the buzzing of timers and the delicate aromas that swirled and rose with the readying of each new plate component, my thoughts were drowned. That was until Suzette decided further discussion on the matter was necessary.  
  


“So what you’re telling me,” Suzette paused, stirring a pot of crimson macerating cherries, “is that this man took you to his ancestral home, introduced you to his entire family including his son and brought you breakfast after you and he –“ A suggestive mumble followed.  
  


“Yes… You were going somewhere with this?” I said impatiently, wiping beads of perspiration from my brow onto my sleeve.  
  


“And then you sat and played with his son and nephew all afternoon, after the four of you went on a family walk – then you went home and realised oh I might’ve made a bit of a mistake?”  
  


Suzette had an uncanny ability to sum up any story into less than half a dozen sentences that once said aloud, would either have the story sound ridiculous or have it make sense. She looked at me with the same expression she’d given me a hundred times over our years as friends and colleagues, an expression that read ‘tell me you hear yourself’.  
  


“It – I mean –“ My words stumbled from my lips, tumbling without competent grace. “You’re supposed to help! Not make things worse!”  
  


“I’ve said it since day one, mon chou –“ She chopped at speed for several seconds, throwing pistachios into mixer. “Always be honest with yourself.”  
  


Of course, I knew what the decision was, I’d been thinking about it from the moment I’d gotten into the damned taxi the day before. Did I face the music with Frank, admit the wrong-doing and beg him to continue our relationship, or did I return to the man I’d left behind and begin something new while we tried to fight our way into the biggest competition of our professional careers?  One night a relationship does not make, but I’d been more than aware of how I’d felt the last few weeks with Jamie.  
  


The kitchen was not the place to have these thoughts, to lose focus while working in daydreams and worries. I was not this woman. I had long dedicated myself to absolute professionalism while I stood in my kitchen. First and foremost, I would be devoted to my job. Each dish, every day.  
  


But the thoughts would not leave, hanging around me like a pungent, dense smoke above my head.  
  


“You know you’ve been staring into that bowl of strawberries like the answer is sitting at the bottom.” Suzette’s voice jolted me from my thoughts, the amusement in her voice all too apparent. I was caught, startled by her and the timer beside me, chanting demanding that I remove my pastry from the fridge for its next turn. I was sure that the irony that I was staring into a bowl of strawberries was not lost on the French native, who would know all too well the origin of the name Fraser.  
  


“I’m not going to tell you to follow your heart because that advice is shit,” She laughed a girlish giggle, downing her tools. “So instead I will say follow your head. You’re a smart woman, one who can tell the difference between a good choice and a bad one.”    
  


Suzette cleaned her hands while I floured my surface, rolling and folding the voluptuously smooth textured dough beneath my fingers.  
  


“You have always known my opinion of Frank – and it has never been a good one. This Jamie seems to make you very happy, and more importantly understands this world and your love for it.” She stressed the latter, knowing and remembering all too well my tales of Frank ignoring most things related to our work. “I hate to sound harsh, but you ran off to the highlands without so much as a goodbye to Frank. You said so yourself that you ignored him the whole time you were there. If you really cared for him, you wouldn’t have done that. Jamie needed you, and you couldn’t abandon him.”  
  


Amidst the voices and noises of our kitchen, all sounds fell silent to the truth Suzette was speaking.  
  


“I am not you, but I know you. If Jamie needs you again, or if you need him, Frank will never figure.” The words settled heavily, resounding deep within my chest as she finally said what I needed to hear. “You do not owe anyone but yourself an answer. Though as I said, I think you know what it is.”  
  


I went to make my retort, only to be thwarted by the arrival of the Maître d’ who called from the door to my station, his face glistening with perspiration.  
  


“Chef Beauchamp! Mr Randall is waiting for you outside – apparently it is incredibly urgent!”  
  


My face blanched, Suzette’s matching mine with a nervous alarm. I was trapped, with no means of escaping the impending confrontation. Frank had finally caught up to me.  
  


                      —————————–>>>>>>>>————————–  
  


I made the short walk through the kitchen and into the foyer at a glacial pace, unwilling to speed up my impending meeting with my jilted partner. The carpet beneath my feet began to feel like rubber with each step, unsteady and ready to collapse. I wasn’t prepared for the conversation, but being thrown into the situation, I naively thought, could spur me forward in organising my thoughts.  
  


I was, however, very wrong in that conclusion.  
  


Frank stood by the desk, dressed in a blue suit that made his skin look almost entirely washed out. His left foot tapped with an abrupt impatience and when finally he heard me approach, eyes burning wild with fury, and the creases that cut so sharply through his cheeks furrowed deep beneath a clenched jaw.   
  


“So you’ve finally decided to reappear have you? Leaving without so much as a ‘see you next Tuesday!’ Just off without a word, leaving me to wonder where the hell you’d gone!”  
  


I had not been ready for the barrage of words he’d immediately thrown at me, and found myself unable to meet the sentence with much more than, “Hello to you too, Frank.”  
  


“I haven’t the time for pleasantries here, Claire. I’m furious with you! Damned furious! Where the hell did you go?!”  
  


His tone and stance suddenly reminded me of a teacher I’d had in a school in Bath as a child. Frank was chiding me for bad behavior, and demanding answers from me like a naughty school child.  
  


’Not the first time he’d spoken to you like this, ey Beauchamp?’ A small voice reminded me.  
  


“I had to work on an incredibly important commission. It was sudden, I didn’t have the time –“  
  


“Bollocks you didn’t have the time!” Frank spat, pacing on the spot a little. “Fucking bollocks and you know it!”  
  


“Don’t swear at me, Frank. There’s no need for it.” I surprised myself in how resigned I sounded. I felt nothing but annoyance at his questioning, and anger at his abrupt foolishness in the middle of my restaurant.  
  


Frank of course completely ignored me, instead launching into a furious monologue complete with wild gesturing and even more pacing. I wondered if I left him run his course would he finally stop and let me speak. He didn’t of course, and continued to spin the same phrases and questions in ten different ways; why had I left him, what was the work, the fact he had a right to know my where abouts… on and on without a pause for breath.   
  


“Do you hear yourself?! I was working! I don’t owe you the ins and outs, Frank!” I threw my hands in the air in exasperation, taking another step toward. “You’re acting like the same jealous fool you always have been!”  
  


The suggestion that he was acting the fool went about as well as a chocolate fire guard would stop a child touching copper flames.

 

“I’m a jealous fool!? Have I ever so much as batted an eyelid when you’ve gone off at events, ignoring me when you’ve thrown yourself at those fucking chefs!” He banged a hand down on a nearby table, making me jolt with the noise. “I’ve always given you the freedom to do whatever you’ve wanted! On the proviso that you tell me where you’re going! For God’s sake, Claire!”  
  


The moment he’d finished his sentence, I was overwhelmed with a sobering effect like nothing I’d ever felt. It was like I’d spent the last few days drunk out of my mind, and suddenly all trace had rushed from my body.   
  


I stepped toward him, bridging the gap between us until mere inches lay between the two of us. It felt as though I were closing a space that had long been there, but had only now become visible.  
  


“You tell me when I have ever left you alone at one of the few work events you’ve actually decided to come to!?” The statement came as more of a warning than a question. Spite was burning at my tongue, anger itching at the back of my throat.   
  


“You know exactly what I’m talking about! Leaving me on the side lines like some damned fool! Christ, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d fucked half of them to get where you are!”  
  


My hand swung up and collided with his right cheek with a resounding crack that left my fingertips and palm stinging with pins and needles. Frank staggered back, a red welt blossoming across his cheek. I walked back toward him, squaring off against him despite our obvious height difference.   
  


“How  _dare_  you.” I huffed a breath, my chest heaving with such fury I thought I might tear him limb from limb with my own hands. “I have worked tirelessly for years to make it to my position. To gain the respect I have. I have travelled the globe and worked beside the best, and you  _dare_  say that I’ve slept my way to my position?” The words burned in my throat, slow and steady despite the coursing anger that was spreading through my veins. Frank made a distinct scoffing sound, shaking his head indignantly.  
  


“You have  _never_  treated my job with an ounce of respect or interest! I have given you my time for your work! I’ve spent days alone on holidays while you’ve wandered off to some site and ignored me! I cannot believe your audacity!”  
  


I paced on the spot, wild with temper and resentment. Bile rose in my throat and my fingers tingled with rushing blood. It was strange how memories swarmed my mind with every scene during our relationship where I had felt almost insignificant or saddened, only to have brushed it away. I’d ignored it and drowned myself in my job, rather than ever finding a balance between the two.  
  


“Do you know something, I’m done. I am! You’ve never treat me with any fucking respect and you’ve tried to poison me against colleagues -”   
  


He interrupted me so suddenly that I was taken completely aback. A spite-fuelled laugh erupted from his chest and continued for several long moments that made my blood boil even more.

 

“It was Fraser, wasn’t it?” The sentence was accusatory, a revelation of sorts.   
  


Another burst of laughter came from his chest, and suddenly he transformed into a figure I had never seen. “You left me for that Scottish bastard!” Each word was punctuated with disdain.   
  


“You’re playing the whore to James  _fucking_  Fraser!”   
  


Half hysteric and blinded with rage, I swung for him again - only this time he’d managed to meet my swing and grab onto my wrist, white knuckled and strong. I tried to shake him off, but his grasp stayed fixed. Instead, I leant into him, the burning of his fingers digging into my flesh, fuelling my anger.  
  


“Get out of my restaurant. Before I  _fucking_  make you.”  
  


His gaze did not break from mine for several seconds before finally, he released my wrist, stepped back and exited the room. The expression on his face was one I’d seen only once, during a particularly bad argument we’d had years before – the look of a challenge, as though we had just engaged in war play.  
  


                             —————–>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>————

I returned to the kitchen a short time later, taking a moment to regain some semblance of composure. I was sure that someone would have heard our argument, and I hoped that it would be ignored for the sake of politeness. Suzette’s eyes had immediately met mine, and at once recognised the fury and lightness in telling Frank Randall to get out of my life and restaurant. She’d said nothing, other than touching my forearm and squeezing in a show of solidarity and affection.

We returned to service preparation and worked through until 10pm when the evenings short window of service was closed. It had ended on a high, fulfilling another night with wild exhaustion, stress and plated symphony. All had cleaned their silvery stations, the dish-washers had long stacked clean plates and we, Suzette and I, had found ourselves alone and with the opportunity for a tête-à-tête before heading home for the evening.  
  


Suzette had chattered about the service, the plates ordered and someone accidentally throwing out a just plated order, only to be met with the fury of not only the Sous Chef, but Chef Fairlie too. I hadn’t made a comment nor met her eye while she’d spoken and I’d changed from my whites. Suzette of course promptly noted and called me out on the fact.  
  


I looked to her and smiled apologetically, sighing with exhaustion. “I don’t mean to be ignorant. I’m just… tired? If that even covers it.”  
  


“Well you have just finished service and broken up with your boyfriend. And speaking of the latter, what exactly did he say that finally made you tell him to go to hell?”  
  


“He actually said I’d fucked my way to the top.” It was my turn now to laugh bitterly. “I’ve worked damned hard and I’m a fucking good chef!” I slammed the locker door behind me, the  _BANG_  of the metal ricocheted off the walls. “Do you want to know what else? I threw Jamie in his face like a damned fool, and he threw him right back at me.”  
  


Her reaction was not one I was expecting, but was one I’d seen before. Neglecting any outburst or comment of shock, she simply made a noise of revelation and waited for me to continue. She’d known it would boil down to Jamie, of course she did.  
  


“I wanted to kill him for it. Between insulting me and my job, then calling Jamie the Scottish bastard… I wasn’t just mad you know? Insult me all you want, I don’t give a damn but don’t say that about him.”  
  


Suzette walked the two steps from her locker to my own, placed a warm hand on mine and smirked. “I’ll give you a moment to catch up with yourself.”  
  


I crossed my brows quizzically before the light did indeed come on. The decisions of the day came rushing through my mind and the conversation with Frank. How I’d felt when he’d insulted my work, my integrity – when he’d insulted Jamie. The penny had been in the air for the past day and now it had certainly dropped.  
  


A sudden shyness struck me like a bolt of lightning and I broke all eye contact with Suzette, fiddling with my coat sleeves. “What if it goes wrong though? I just broke it off with Frank and then I dive headfirst into something with Jamie? And there’s the competition –“  
  


She cut me off with a blunt shake of the head, “What if, hmm? What if it goes right? What if you get through the competition with him? What if it works out? You can’t work on what if’s – that’s just ridiculous. The Claire Beauchamp I know doesn’t do what if’s. The Claire Beauchamp I know will go with her gut and see where it takes her. You’ve not failed yet, why should you fail now?”  
  


“If you want to be a chef, you can’t wait for it. You have to take it for yourself. We both know that applies to love too.” Her words were wise and honeyed, insistent and more importantly, true.

 

Suzette had always been the best of me; best friend, best chef I’d worked with, kindest heart and broadest smile. Intelligent, quick witted and the same shoe size. When I’d needed to hear the truth she’d always given it to me. She never give advice likely, and I had always loved her for that.  
  


I stood from my seat and hugged her, my arms crossing behind her back.   
  


“Now don’t forget,” Suzette started, standing back and placing her hands on my shoulders. She met my gaze with a playful gleam in her eye, a snigger of laughter sitting under her words. “If Jamie has any single relatives, I like a man with a beard.”   
  


“Woman, honestly!”   
  


We’d begun laughing riotously, walking side by side out of the hotel and into the cold of the night, scarf clad with our coats buttoned to our necks. Before long she was gone, and I was alone again with only the stars and the echoes of the hotel for company.   
  


I glanced down at my phone and clocked the time. It really was now or never, and I just hoped that I would catch the last train before it was too late…..  
  


                   —————————–>>>>>>>>>—————————–  
  


Throughout the journey into Glasgow, I’d been lost in constructing scenarios as to how the discussion ahead would pan out. I’d rehearsed my lines, and conjured his. I’d seen scenes of rejection, acceptance and a whirlwind romance unfurl before my eyes. He had said of his own volition that our night together had meant something to me. Of course, it had taken my walking away, fighting with Frank, Suzette’s voice of reason and a stern discussion with myself before I’d finally admitted the truth I’d known all along. I should have turned the taxi around the moment I’d gotten to the bottom of the lane.  
  


When I’d finally arrived at Ashton Lane, with its constellation of burning orange bulbs hanging overhead, it was in fact almost midnight. All doors were closed, the lights of the restaurants snuffed out. I walked alone; no souls drifting around me, lounging at the tables and chairs that had long been hidden from greedy hands that lurked in the darkness.  
  


I strolled past the signage for Broch Morda and paused for a moment, touching the walls of the building as if I might feel the vibration of life beneath the walls. Somewhere inside the building I knew Jamie would be busying himself preparing for the following day, poring over figures in the the kitchen. He never did leave on time, that I knew too well.

 

With a final look, I continued walking down the road, turning the corner into the short alleyway that led to the back entrance into Broch Morda. The sense of trepidation sat heavily in the midst of my belly, fluttering wildly like moths around light.  With each step, a steadying breath followed. I thought about my conversation with Frank, trying to conjure any final worries I had before taking the plunge into the unknown. Though of course, Jamie wasn’t really the unknown. Jamie was anything but. The fact we’d slept together had clearly cemented that he most certainly wasn’t unknown in at least a bodily sense – but I’d felt entirely different with him. I’d felt like I was, as cliché as I knew I sounded, home. And that was always a feeling to hold onto.  
  


In no time, I stood outside the kitchen door. Suddenly all preparation flew from my mind, and I stood alone outside the door like a scared child. I clocked my reflection in the glass and pushed back back a stray curl of hair with my palm, as though it might make some difference to my wild appearance. I was half haggard with sleep, my shirt and trousers creased from travel and my trenchcoat hastily tied. My hands shook with cold and nerves, my heart beating so wildly in my chest I could feel it in the soles of my feet. This was it. I reached out a hand, and took no further time to pause for a final thought.  
  


                          ———————>>>>>>>>>>>>>——————–  
  


The same sight that had greeted me on my first visit to Broch Morda kitchen greeted me now. Stainless steel counters framed against the same warm orange lights, pictures pinned on the wall with the smiling faces of employees I’d come to know. The blast of warm air was delightful to say the very least, the smell of cardamom scenting the kitchen this time. It was cosy, and comforting and calming all at once - something few would ever say for a professional kitchen.   
  


At the back, with his back toward me and leaning over a table with paperwork littered around him again, stood Jamie. I indulgently took in the sight of him; the sleeves hastily rolled up to his forearms, his apron strings crisscrossed across his back, nipping at his slender waistline. He had his hair pulled back and knotted at the nape of his neck, something I’d never seen him do before. My hands still shook a little, and I could barely figure out what to do with them, so instead kept clasping and unclasping them.  
  


“Is that you, Geordie? Where’d you go for those eggs, Edinburgh?” He asked over his shoulder, still unaware of me.  
  


“It isn’t Geordie. It’s me. Claire.”  
  


Jamie’s back went rigid, and slowly he stood upright until he turned until he my gaze with an expression of such awe and the same blissful relief I felt in finally seeing his face.  
  


“Hello.” I felt a beaming fool, but I could hardly help myself. Pulse pounding in my temples, I took a careful step toward him, afraid I might trip.  
  


“Ye came back -” Jamie’s words fell away as eyes grew wide with disbelief. “In the middle of the night?! Christ yer back here -” His chest heaved under his shirt and his Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. I worried a little that he might pass out.  
  


My own reply came stumbling from my lips hurriedly, as if I were trying to say it fast enough that it would still be true. “I broke it off with Frank. I should’ve done it a long time ago. He was an arsehole. I just didn’t click on quite fast enough.”  
  


We both laughed nervously, all too aware of the potential that shone behind my return.   
  


“I thought about everything - Frank, you and me, the competition… Then I talked to Suzette and she made me think even more about everything. And I had a huge fight with Frank that really -”  
  


Jamie stepped forward, anger and concern all at once crossing his face as he interrupted my speech. “He argued wi’ ye?”  
  


“It’s fine,” I flitted my hand dismissively, “slapped him and told him to get out before I made him.”  
  


He nervously laughed again, the noise wobbling with amusement and surprise at my violent action.  
  


I took the final step toward him, closing the distance between us that had lain in our way for such a time now that it had felt perhaps uncrossable. Where I had closed the gap to push Frank away, this gap I closed to pull Jamie beside me.  
  


“I know we’ve got the competition and careers that demand more attention than we can give… “  I looked up to him, watching the light of his eyes burning with excitement and desire, and hope, so much hope that it permeated from him like a haze of zest. “But cooking with you, and being beside you –“  
  


With a final breath, I spoke the words I had denied myself.  “I don’t think I want to be without you.”  
  


I was sure in the time following my admission, Jamie could have lifted from the ground he looked so light with emotion. His hands reached for mine, closing the remaining void between us until finally we were almost flush with one another again. He held my hands so tightly I could feel the bones of his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hands. He was gazing at me with an unspeakable joy and I could barely contain the grin that broke across my face. In the place where we had almost first kissed, here we were again.  
  


“I don’t want to be without you either.”  
  


I released a breath I didn’t realise I was holding, and felt a rush of warmth spreading through my chest down to my fingertips and toes.  
  


“We’ve got a lot to talk about.” I uttered, biting my lip earnestly.  
  


“We do.” He made a ‘hmm’ noise deep in his throat that I felt reverberate through my chest. “Though first, would you mind very much if I kissed you? I’ve thought of nothing else since the moment I woke up beside you.”  
  


With such a request, I was only too happy to accept.  
  
  
His hands broke with mine, one cradling my face and the other winding its way around my body as he leaned in to kiss me. There was no waiting in this kiss, no more what if’s. It was slow and soft, comforting and passionate in ways that mere words could never be. His hand rested below my ear, pulling my lips, my body closer to his own as our breaths mingled. I arched a little, moaning into his kiss as the heat of his body burned against my own. The stubble of his beard scratched at my skin and prickled against my fingertips, but God I could only pull him closer. The worries, the wonder and the unsurety I’d felt since Lallybroch had all but been replaced with a burning clarity. I had risked what I had with Frank for the sake of something new, throwing away all caution and fear for Jamie.   
  


When we finally broke apart, in his pleased smile I saw everything I’d hoped.   
  


“I shouldn’t have gotten into that taxi.” I whispered, my lips swollen from Jamie’s kiss.  
  


“Ye needed yer time, Sassenach.” His forehead rested against mine, the very tip of his nose brushing my own. “Dinna fash yerself, it’s the two of us now.”   
  
  


——-

END CHAPTER NINE

–

Translation:  
Mon chou – My sweet bun


	16. Ficlet: The Wager

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is ‘The Wager’, a Just Desserts starring Angus, Rupert, Mrs Fitz and Fergus. Mischief rears its head during the wedding as all bets are apparently on for our baking couple...  
> This story fits in during the wedding (chapter seven, part three) and is a late upload as I completely forgot to put it onto the archive!

 

Jenny and Ian’s wedding continued with the same vigour with which it began. Despite the looming dark and call for all to sleep, the lights and frivolity of the evening shone bright. Drinks flowed in abundance, bellies were filled and hearts lit with happiness. The DJ had played constantly for the last hour, with several groups lining the floor, dancing to songs new and old. Littered across several tables sat those seeking a moments rest, a drink in hand to slake their exhausted thirst. 

To the right of the dancefloor sat Angus and Rupert, seeking respite from the excitement of the evening. Their jackets had been long since removed; slung over a chair as they undid their waistcoats and opened their shirt collars to ease the rising flush of exertion and drunkenness. They’d mingled and mixed, eaten their fill and had several measures of a good Islay whisky with four of their long-missed cousins. Now they would sit and watch for a time, letting everyone else make drunken arses of themselves for their own enjoyment – a cold pint in hand for company. 

For the most part Angus and Rupert were silent, odd times making conversation about the day, their impending hangovers or which of the two would chat to the science teacher from Jenny’s school first. After a brief moment of heated discussion, Angus’ greedy sugar-seeking eyes had fallen on the cake again.

“I tell ye somethin’, Rupert - that cake.  _Christ_ that Sassenach lassie is a witch to make somethin’ like that.”

Rupert had heartily agreed, clinking his pint with Angus’. They’d had a second serving atop the wedding dinner, politely asking one of the caterers to stash a few extra pieces for them both. He had, when the crowd had cleared, grabbed Claire to congratulate her on the work she’d done. She stood tall, graceful with unquestionable beauty and intelligence that left him impressed beyond measure. They had spoken animatedly about the restaurant, the impending competition and the wedding, even going so far as to apologise for not approaching him again sooner. Angus had joined their chatter, his shameless flirting met with her quick wit and charm. She fit well with their clan, and both agreed she made good drinking company.  

As their conversation deepened, Rupert curiously noticed that as any mention of his younger cousin had come up, she lit up like a bonfire. With each further mention of Jamie’s name, it became increasingly apparent to him that she had quite the fancy for the lad – and he was damned sure Jamie felt the same if the ridiculous expression on his face was anything to go by. Indeed, it was actually quite obvious when he really thought about it. Obvious to him, but perhaps not yet to them.

Taking a sip of his pint, he decided to put the question of Claire and Jamie to his drinking companion. “How long before they catch on?” He asked, motioning across the room to a chattering Jamie and Claire.

Angus eyed Rupert with confusion, curling his lip and furrowing his heavy brow, “Catch on wi’ what?”

 **“** They fancy one another ye idiot,” Rupert scoffed, taking another refreshing sip. “How long do ye think it’ll be before Claire makes an honest man of Jamie?”

His question was apparently cause for laughter, as Angus looked at him and let out an almost spritely giggle of amusement. “Look at ye, wee matchmaker!” Picking up his crisp pint he pointed to his friend with the glass, “Ye’ll be puttin’ Mrs Fitz out of business if yer not careful.”  
  
**“** Twenty quid says a month.” Rupert retorted before taking another large gulp of his pint. Angus replied with a scoff, shaking his head dismissively.  
  
**“** Twenty quid says two months - he’s no’ that soft man!”  


Their raised voices had, without their realising, attracted the attention of Mrs Fitz who upon noticing the two men with their heads together, had become immediately suspicious of their chatter. With a sizeable glass of whisky in hand, she approached them sporting the same rosy flush across her plump cheeks.

“What are ye two sods gettin’ up to!? I ken that look of mischief on yer face Rupert MacKenzie!” She extended an arm and swiftly swatted Rupert, her voice rolling with seriousness and amusement.

“We’re bettin’ on love Mrs Fitz!” He laughed, winking his eye cheekily. “Care to join in on a wager?”

Mrs Fitz arched her eyebrow, placed her hand on the chair beside her and spoke with the confidence of omniscient diety,  **“** If this is a wager on our Jamie and that lovely lass – I give them two weeks.”

Angus swallowed a sip of his pint with a choke, coughing back a laugh of disbelief, “Christ yer confident!”

 **“** Ah, ye forget I’ve a sixth sense for this –” She laughed, before looking over to a currently occupied Claire and Jamie who stood engaged in conversation with several guests. “An’ I’ve seen how they’re lookin’ at one another.” Mrs Fitz of course referred to Jamie’s intermittent gazing at Claire, and the way in which for the briefest of moments he allowed himself a little indulgence in enjoying being beside her.   
  
While the conversation between the three had deepened, a fourth guest had arrived sporting a curiosity that needed to be sated. 

  
“Are you betting at Auntie Jenny’s wedding?” Fergus asked, appearing beside Mrs Fitz and surprising Angus enough that he jumped a little in his seat.   
  
“Wheesht lad! Ye’ll get us skelped if she hears ye!” Rupert gentled scolded, smirking and placing a large finger to his mouth.   
  
“Well are you?” Fergus cheekily inquired again.   
  
“It’s a wee wager, no’ a bet.” Angus corrected gruffly as Fergus moved closer, rolling up his sleeves to preparing himself for the impending gossip.   
  
“Twenty quid on when yer Da an’ Claire realise they’re makin’ heart eyes at one another.”   
  
Fergus rolled his eyes and smirked, feeling very confident in having the upper hand in the situation. He’d talked to his Da about Claire and had dinner with them the night before. Oh yes, he felt very confident indeed.   
  
“I can join in with the bet, yes?”   
  
The adults in the party looked at one another before Rupert shrugged at Angus and Mrs Fitz as though to say “ _what’s the harm, ey?”_  
__  
“Aye, go on then lad.” Rupert answered, “Though I canna exactly take money from ye so if ye loose, yer doing the dishes in Broch Morda for a month – no arguments! Deal?”

  
Fergus nodded and grinned toothily, dimples appearing beside the lines of his mouth.  “Tomorrow.”  
  
**“** Tomorrow what, lad?” Asked Mrs Fitz, peering down at him.  
  
With a straight expression of sheer conviction Fergus answered again, “I bet tomorrow.”   
  
A laugh erupted from Rupert that caused him to cough chestly before he pointed a chubby finger at Mrs Fitz, “An’ I thought ye were confident!”   
  
Mrs Fitz leaned down to the boy, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. She was curious to say the least, and as eager for gossip as any nosy neighbour might be. “Do ye know somethin’ we don’t lad?”   
  
**“** Yer no’ playing if ye’ve got inside information!” Angus added, pointing between his eyes and Fergus face with two fingers in an  _‘I’m watching you’_ motion.  
  
“Moi?!” Fergus answered, dramatically placing his hand on his chest as though he were reenacting some dramatic sequence, “Non! I just bet tomorrow.”   
  
Once again, Mrs Fitz, Angus and Rupert all eyed each other with the same curiosity, their eyes shifting between one another and the younger of the Fraser family.  
  
“Fine, tomorrow it is from young Fergus.” He raised his glass to the air, holding it aloft for a moment while he finished the rules of the bet, “Person closest gets the money, twenty quid each. We wait for Jamie to confirm it, ken?” All parties nodded. “An’ if ye don’t win lad, yer washing up in the restaurant every night for the next month! Deal?”   
  
All glasses clinked together, while Rupert extended a spare hand for Fergus to shake in agreement.  
  
Not a moment after their glasses had been replaced to table and hand, a sweet laugh came from the left of the group. The attention of a few had been captured, including that of the four wager participants. Claire and Jamie stood beside one another, still chatting with the several family members they had earlier. In a swift motion, Claire raised her wine glass to her mouth and took a sip, before handing it to Jamie who, in turn, placed his mouth where hers had rested and drank too from the same glass. The action seemed entirely unplanned, though had been completed without thought. With the glass held in his left hand, Jamie leant closer to Claire with an oblivious confidence, and placed his right arm behind her back, pulling her flush to him.  
  
All four stared; Mrs Fitz with a faint flush of confidence, Rupert and Angus simultaneously wondering if they should have lowered their bets and finally Fergus, who stood with a cocky confidence.  
  
**“** Uncle Rupert, Uncle Angus – Mrs Fitz,” He began, “I prefer cash.”

 


	17. Ficlet: In Lovers Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murtagh makes a detour and finds himself right in the path of Cupid's arrow....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the latest of the Baking AU ficlets, “In Lovers Meeting” and one that I’ve been dying to get published for ages! Hope you all enjoy it! The next full chapter should be up in the next few days! 
> 
> Love - S x

 

On the rare occasion that Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser found himself running an errand, he would complain quite audibly that either one of the younger lot in Broch Morda should have been sent, or that he was far too old to be rushing about like a messenger lad.  
  


When Jamie had asked him to run an errand to Gleneagles Hotel on his way home from a meeting in Perth, he’d audibly complained that if Jamie wanted to pass on messages to Claire, he should do it himself. Jamie had taken not a blind bit of notice, and had instead informed him it was to check in with a woman named Suzette Moreau, the Sous Chef of Andrew Fairlie, to see if she might be able to organise a surprise weekend off for Claire so he might take her back to Lallybroch.  
  


Murtagh found that he couldn’t argue with the request. He liked the lass, and had invested a little more hope for Jamie and her than he would ever admit. It was a sweet deed the lad was doing, and he accepted the task, demanding a good bottle of something as payment. Jamie had duly noted the request, laughed and assured him there’d be something waiting at his station in the morning.  
  


So he had taken the road back from Perth, playing Clanadonia loudly with his windows down, the sound of the bagpipes and drums floating on the cold air. It wasn’t too much of a way out to get to Gleneagles admittedly, only ten or so minutes. He would call into the hotel, find Suzette and be on his way.  
  


The empty roads, flanked by miles of green farmland and forestry began to dot with the occasional cottage until finally Murtagh was driving past the mansion homes of Gleneagles Village and down the long, pruned driveway into the Gleneagles Hotel itself. It stood on flat land, the same proud building he had been to no more than a month ago with the lads for Ian’s stag weekend.

 

People wandered past him with their golf caddies, filled with overly expensive golf clubs and monogrammed balls. He drove slowly around and under the canopy where a lad, kilted in Gleneagles tartan approached the car. Murtagh exited the vehicle, handed over his keys to the lad, took a small silver token ticket and wandered into the foyer of the hotel.  
  


Upon walking through the doors, Murtagh felt a little too underdressed to be in the place. While his clothes; a pair of jeans, polo t-shirt and a Barbour jacket Jamie had gifted to him, looked passable, his wind battered hair made him look as though he’d wandered in off the street. To avoid the staff, he took an immediate right toward the corridor that led to Andrew Fairlie.  
  


As he wandered, he marvelled a little at the finery of the hotel; the polished floors and the darkened woods that panelled the walls. The weighted wooden doors of Andrew Fairlie whooshed open with a labored noise, revealing the lavish restaurant once more. Murtagh had forgotten a little what the restaurant had looked like thanks to the effects of several glasses of a rather sublime whisky he and the lads had partaken in. The dark walls, golden seats with tables covered with silken cream table cloths had almost entirely evaded his memory. It was a beautiful place to be sure, and he made note that he would try to return.   
  
A little too taken in by the décor, Murtagh hadn’t spotted a petite blonde who was marching quite intently toward him.  
  


“Excuse me,” She said authoritatively, looking him up and down judgmentally “You can’t be in here. We aren’t open for another three hours.”  
  


“Aye, I ken that. I’m looking for the Sous Chef? A lass by Suzette?” Murtagh answered gruffly, his moustache twitching with irritation.  
  


“You’ll have to wait here – I’ll see if she’s available.” She turned and walked off toward the kitchen, leaving Murtagh both amused and annoyed at her dismissive attitude.  
  


He waited for a short while alone, checking his phone intermittently to memorise the dates he knew he would forget. It crossed his mind that he hoped the lass wouldn’t think him foolish trying to organise something on Jamie’s behalf. Why Jamie himself couldn’t have called and spoken to her himself he would never know.   
  
More time passed, and becoming impatient, he made a move to walk over to the kitchen himself, but in that exact moment the door of the kitchen flew open and there stood the most beautiful brunette Murtagh had seen. HIs heart began running as fast as a V8 engine as she walked toward him with an enchanting self-possession.   
  


Her curled hair was pulled back from her face, revealing wide eyes, pink flushed cheeks and a long neck. The moment she arrived beside him, smiling broadly with dimpled studded into her cheeks, she stood only as tall as his shoulder and smelled of sweet clementines.   
  


“I’m Suzette Moreau, the Sous Chef. Ginny said you were looking for me?” She stuck out her hand and Murtagh shook it accordingly, hoping his palms weren’t suddenly clammy.  
  


“I’m Murtagh Fraser,” He coughed, trying to swallow hard. “I’m the Sous Chef of Broch Morda – Jamie’s Uncle? He asked me to speak with ye about some time off for Claire?”   
  


Suzette’s eyes lit with recognition that Murtagh had not expected. “Oh! You’re Murtagh! Claire spoke about you when she came back after the wedding.” She grinned again jovially and Murtagh reeled a little in surprise.   
  


“She mentioned me?”  
  


“Oh yes, all good things I assure you! I think she’s quite fond of you.”

 

Murtagh was humbled immediately by Suzette’s comment, feeling the creeping blush across his cheeks that he only hoped wouldn’t make him look a daft lad.  
  


“Jamie asked if you could get a weekend off for Claire as a surprise. Dinna ken why he couldn’t ask himself…”  
  


Suzette flittered her hand, nodding softly. “I can organise something for him, it’s no problem. It’s actually quite nice to see them spending time together.”    
  


“Aye weel the way the lad beams if someone so much as says her name – ye’ll have seen the same in her?” Murtagh laughed, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Absolutely!” She began laughing, deep from within her chest so much so that her face lit with absolute joy. “She shines! Oh it’s terribly sweet. Though she would give me such a telling if she found out I’d said so.”  
  


“Dinna worry, yer secret is safe wi’ me.” Murtagh winked and Suzette laughed again.

 

They continued to speak for a while longer, Suzette forgetting completely that she had abandoned the kitchen and Murtagh in his resolve that he would be in and out of the restaurant in next to no time. They both stood with curiosity, listening to the other speak with appreciation and admiration. She had brought up being a Sous Chef, asking how his work was at Broch Morda. He in turn asked how she fared at Gleneagles, and if she’d worked with Claire for long. She’d explained she had met Claire during their training and had decided to make a permanent move to Scotland some years prior. As she spoke, her accent so delightful to listen to, Murtagh he found himself watching Suzette so intensely that he had to force himself to break his gaze.   
  


With each smile she gave, he was warmed to his bones.   
  


Their discussion however was interrupted quite suddenly with the shout of a portly gentleman from the kitchen doors, his eyes wild with exhaustion and panic.

 

“Chef Moreau! I need some assistance if you’re available!”   
  


Suzette whipped around and waved a hand across to him, attempting to allay his fear. “I’ll be there in a moment!”  
  


She turned back to him and grinned again. “I really must go, the kitchen calls.” Suzette paused for a moment and placed a delicate hand onto Murtagh’s arm, “It was wonderful to meet you, Murtagh.”   
  


“Aye, Suzette. Pleasure was all mine.”   
  


Suzette turned to leave his company, and in the seconds that she did, a great aching motion came from deep inside Murtagh’s chest that made the words spill from his mouth before he had time to consider them.   
  


“I wondered if ye might fancy a drink? Wi’ me – here or we can go somewhere else?”   
  


Suzette turned abruptly and looked to him with brows raised before smirking and laughing delightedly - so much so that Murtagh felt almost blinded by her.   
  


“Really?” She laughed again, Murtagh looking on with confusion. “I was actually going to ask the same thing of you!”   
  


An almost palpable feeling of relief settled in Murtagh’s chest as Suzette took out her phone and typed in his contact details. Murtagh was sure he could have been knocked over by a feather in that moment, a feeling that he rarely found himself experiencing.   
  


With numbers exchanged and plans made, Murtagh and Suzette bid one another their first goodbye. Suzette made for the kitchen, the voice of a relieved Chef erupting from behind the door the moment it was opened. Turning on his heel, Murtagh looked back and smiled beneath his beard wondering if the lad had planned their meeting all along.

 


	18. Chapter Ten - Finishing Touches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the submission day approaches, Claire and Jamie scramble to work on their new relationship and get ready to submit their portfolio for their competition entry... but is it smooth sailing or are rough seas waiting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! So here we are with chapter ten - sorry for the delay! Hope you all enjoy it.   
> Also if anyone has any issues with the formatting please let me know! I’m having a nightmare posting my chapters on here and the formatting ends up bloody all over the place!
> 
> With love - S x

 

In the two weeks following my return to Broch Morda and admission that I wanted to be with Jamie, we’d managed to meet only four times to practice before one of us had been forced to leave the other to return to work. We’d made as much use as possible of the time we had together to practice, but it hadn’t felt like enough in the slightest.   
  
The portfolio we’d managed to practice quite perfectly, bringing together new decoration concepts for the bonbon and a little extra flair for our chocolate craft. The hopes I had for my vision were coming to fruition and I could not have been prouder of myself, or of him. There were too many chefs that stepped on toes when they collaborated, but not Jamie. It was nothing but a joy working beside Jamie, seeing what he could do with the ingredients before him. He had remarked several times during our training together that watching me felt like he was seeing pure alchemy before his eyes, and I hadn’t so much as managed a thank you before I’d pinned him against one of the kitchen surfaces and taken full command of his charming mouth.  
  
I had made my decision. I’d picked Jamie, picked a life and a relationship with him over Frank. I’d abandoned the years and the security I’d had with one man for a life with another that was built on a love of food and a mutual respect of the other. The time we’d been together had been so terribly short that I knew most would think my actions bordering on the brink of insanity, but I had known that night at Lallybroch. Jamie promised so much more than Frank could ever give, and I could not live without him now that I had him.  
  
  
——————>>>>>>>>>>>>>—————–

  
When the day of the portfolio submission finally dawned, I’d packed up my tools and an overnight bag and headed straight to Broch Morda to meet with Jamie. We’d mutually decided it would be less likely that we would be interrupted while we worked in Broch Morda, despite it being the smaller of the kitchens. We could take up residency in a corner and keep to ourselves until the work was finished and collected. The staff were far more like family than mere friendly faces in the Broch Morda kitchen, and all silently rooted for us as we settled in to work.  
  
We’d decided to try to pace ourselves as we got through the desserts, sticking to a mutually discussed schedule that would maximise the amount of time we had before pick-up at 12pm.  
  
All chocolate would be chopped for prepared first for all recipes. The Sacher Torte petit four cake batter would be prepared and made, the bonbon shells prepared and chilled while we made all both the jam and ganache for the Sacher Torte and the caramel for the bonbon would be completed. Finally, the chocolate flowers would be made, alongside the sugar craft ‘glass’ orbs that would hold each individual flower, as though suspended in time.  
  
We’d both begun chopping chocolate, knives slicing through chunks and shards of dark, milk and white chocolate. Piles sat before us like mountain caps, portioned into a rocky scape that would tumble into mixes and saucepans.  
  
The Sacher Torte cake mixture came together quite perfectly, with the earthy aroma of the espresso powder immediately bringing forth the richness of the chocolate that glistened in the pan.  Jamie stood by my side, filling dozens of orb shaped bonbon palettes, flecked with edible gold that would shine like a starry night against the dark cacao shell.  
  
The satiny, luscious mixture of the Sacher Torte was placed into the oven, while Jamie placed our bonbon trays into the refrigerator. The ganache for the cake sat mixed and ready to be slathered onto the waiting cake, a dark, rich and thick robe for the cake.  
  
Sitting beside our sticky, fragrant apricot jam, the sweet Speyside whisky caramel bubbled violently in a copper pan, the foaming golden pan swirled with rich butter until it came to a smooth, velvet consistency that had my taste buds swooning with delight. Jamie crafted the tobacco dark chocolate ganache that would sit atop the glistening caramel, swirled above our heads with notes of vanilla and smoke that would only compliment the caramel.  
  
Time passed at speed, with each element being combined with another until suddenly our petit four sat proudly dressed, adorned with its chocolate thistle seal in the walk-in refrigerator, while the smooth domes of our golden bonbons sat proudly presented in a white box, nestled beneath a web of pristine tissue.  
  
Our backs were aching with such pains that our spines popped as we stood and stretched, rolling our shoulders in vain attempts at easing motions. The final element of our portfolio lay ahead, the part where real concentration and time were demanded of you without any ease. Chocolate flowers encased in a sugar glass orb would sit like ornaments, each petal looking as though suspended in time.  
  
Preparation of the chocolate would take some time; ensuring that we were careful in constructing each shape and curl we would need. Cans of cooling spray sat to hand in their half dozen, ready and waiting for construction. We would need to work quickly and with the utmost care. Chocolate was a mistress that could as easily make you shine as it could make you stumble. Too much handling and fingerprints would appear, holes in edges and inconsistencies that could cost us points during judging.  
  
We began with sheets of acetate that we smothered with layers of chocolate, scoring the plastic with long and short lines, then shaping each sheet around cans to create the curves we needed for each piece. Jamie began making our own modelling chocolate for more subtle work on each of the flowers.  
  
Modelling chocolate would provide a versatility and ease that was sometimes unavailable when working with acetate based work. Rigid enough to hold its shape while cut, it was pliable enough to mould into beautifully sculptured pieces. Carefully weighing chocolate to ensure the most desirable result, a ratio of corn syrup was added in parts, briefly warmed to ensure no lumps. With continued stirring and some careful time watching, and plenty of kneading into a smooth paste like texture, it was ready and perfectly made.  
  
And so, after all our molding, bubbling and stirring, our crafting work began.  
  


 ————  
  


One always ran the risk of having something go wrong with acetate, even the best of pastry chefs could face issue and goodness, after several attempts I had been ready to throw the damned stuff at the wall. Two of the sheets had immediately cracked down the middle, petals had shattered beneath my finger tips and colours had run as Jamie had painted individual silken petals.  
  


The chocolate flowers we’d known, would always take time, but after almost two and a half hours working on them alone, I found myself wondering how in God’s name I’d managed Jenny and Ian’s wedding cake.  
  


Finally, laid across the table, as though freshly picked from their stems, dozens of flowers littered the surface. Handcrafted and hand painted, with crimson red cacao butter, creams and yellows, verdant greens and the pale gold of gingers in the finest of detail. The flowers Vianne had held beneath bell jars lay beneath my eyes, and I knew she would have been proud. Each wafer-thin layer of chocolate mimicked thick, velvety petals and were all but missing their natural fragrance. Where the sweet and soft scents of clove and rose should be, the smooth creaminess of chocolate lay, swirling with the scents of caramel and espresso that lingered.  
  


The final stage lay ahead that would finish our submission just in time for its pick up – the sugar work.  
  


Jamie had quite happily handed over the hot sugar work to me, knowing I was far more confident in my work manipulating the boiling material.  Sugar work, much like glass, lay somewhere between amazing and damned dangerous. It demanded all attention – you could not for a moment flicker. As long as it may take to make, in just a moment that work could be smashed into pieces.  
  


Gloved and with my equipment ready, Jamie poured the boiling sugar onto the silicone mat surface and with quick movements I began manipulating the product, folding and pulling over and over until it became workable. The idea behind the sugar was to work it until it got to its optimum temperature, then begin the process of creating a thick mass that can be cut, twisted and turned into a bauble. Several of the Broch Morda junior staff stood and watched as I began elongating the mass, forming it onto the rubber reed which would pump the air into the sugar. Between cooling and heating, ensuring everything is sealed, the orb began to take form.  
  
  


With the scissors, I began manipulating the orb from the reed, handing the finished product to Jamie so it might settle properly. After the first was finished, a dozen more followed, some with ease, some not so easily. Twice the heat had penetrated my gloves and burned my fingertips, leaving me with blistering red blotches decorating my hands. Three of the orbs had shattered during cooling, leaving me frustrated and swearing like a sailor.  
  
  


Finally, after a perfect twelve were finally finished, Jamie and I sprayed each of the baubles with a cacao butter white lustre, and placed each of the flowers inside their glass cases. Before us lay weeks of preparation, planning and hard work. With a sigh of relief, Jamie took me into his embrace and placed a kiss against my cheek. We had done it, and with thirty minutes to spare.  
  


————————————————  
 

At exactly 12pm, Mrs Fitz entered the kitchen to let us know that a courier from the competition was here to collect the portfolio. The entire kitchen turned to us as Jamie picked up the cold bag holding our work and walked out into the restaurant floor, praying that no damage would come to anything while it made its way for judging.  
  
A gentleman with coiffed hair, and an outfit that resembled more gym lad than patisserie courier, greeted us with a warm smile and asked for the submission – or in our case, a large cold bag filled with plastic catering boxes. Pick up paperwork signed, he’d left almost as quickly as he’d arrived.  
  
Jamie and I stood hand in hand as the courier left, the same chanting thoughts of hope whirring around both of our heads. We could do no more now, the wait had begun, and we were powerless. As the information had stated, we would now wait.   
  
On the 17th of the month, by 4pm, a call would be made to the team captains letting them know that they had been successful in their entry. If entrants did not receive a phone call, they had not been successful. It was as simple as that.

 

—————————->>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>—————————  
  
We made our way to Jamie’s apartment a few hours later, knowing well this was our first night together since Lallybroch.   
  


The flat itself sat a mere ten minutes away from Broch Morda, near the Glasgow Botanic Gardens in the West End. We’d taken his car and driven into the darkness of the night, lit by blooms of stars that shone overhead like fireflies in the nigh and after a while, amidst the orange glow of streetlamps ahead, a blonde sandstone building revealed itself, sitting right on the corner of the road.  
  
The structure was elegant in the very least, and I wondered how much more beautiful it might look in the daylight. The skeletons of trees long without their leaves stood bare against the sides of the steps, another hanging almost over the corner of the house.  
  
_‘Of course, he would find somewhere with trees.’_ I thought, knowing he would miss the lush verdant fields and thick trunked trees surround Lallybroch. I found myself wondering how often he split between his apartment and Lallybroch, hoping that the latter did not stand neglected for long periods of time.

 

Jamie produced his keys, unlocked an ornate stained-glass door, taken another step to his right, unlocked a second door and ushered me into what I assumed was his home. With a flick of the light switch, the darkness I had been plunged into was lit fantastically, revealing wood finished and an ornate original fire surround that climbed the wall from floor to ceiling. The room was tidy, with a large, worn burgundy leather Chesterfield sofa sitting opposite the fire, flanked by two cream chairs. Books lined a long bookcase that ran several feet long and as many high. A gallery of pictures hung on the wall, with faces I recognised and ones I didn’t, all grinning back toward us with the smiles warm and bright. Perched in opposite corners sat an extraordinarily large flat screen television, and a desk filled with papers and files, as well as a large coffee mug that read “World’s Greatest Ginger”.  
  


I stepped further into the room, and Jamie’s spoke behind me.  
  


“This is – well home.”  
  


I turned to meet his gaze and instead of the confident smile he’d been wearing earlier, he looked almost sheepish. The last time we’d found ourselves in his home, or at least one of them, and at night no less, I’d been frantically pulling off his clothes to have him stripped by the time we entered his bedroom.  
  


“Shall we go to bed?” I’d asked coyly. A shy silence fell on us, one that left us both open to a thousand possibilities and neither of us could decide which we wanted to go with.  
  


“To bed, or to sleep?” He asked nervously, cautiously almost.  
  


“Well?” I arched an eyebrow and watched a flush of desire sweep across his face.  
  


Stepping toward me, Jamie kissed me with a smirk before taking my hand in his own and pulling me toward the back of the apartment, forgetting anything and everything else.  
  


—————————  
  


Jamie’s bedroom sat at the back of the apartment, looking off into the garden that sat shrouded in the black night. The room looked almost something from a catalogue, with darkest mahogany black furniture sitting against off white walls. The bed was huge, a wrought iron frame holding a mattress at least seven-foot-long by as much wide to fit Jamie’s’ towering frame. A grey and blue tartan blanket covered the bed, edged by long rectangular pillows. Bedside cabinets flanked each side of the bed, holding industrial looking steel lamps and a large stack of books. More picture frames hung against the wall, vast landscapes of Scotland so perfect you could almost smell the cold on the air.  
  
Jamie closed the door behind us and I turned, meeting his expression of burning lust with my own. I wasn’t sure that I was scared, but I felt the weight of knowledge that last time we were filled with excitement from the wedding, a good measure of alcohol and blinded with lust for one another. Now, it was just us – sober and very aware of one another.  
  
We stood before each another, removing clothing with the same speed as we last had, paying no care to where the items fell. Each item removed was met with a kiss, hungry and heavy, demanding off all the senses. His mouth was warm and soft, tasting of lingering chocolate and whisky. It was everything I’d missed and wanted for days. 

 

With a laugh, Jamie lifted me right off my feet and carried me to the bed, letting me into the softness of the mattress. Our eyes locked for a moment, a distance lying between us until Jamie began to crawl over my body. In a move I would absolutely regret ten seconds later, I leant up in hopes of capturing his mouth – instead, the bridge of my nose collided with his head.   
  


“Ow!” A sharp tingling sensation filled my face followed by a burn that sunk right down my throat.  
  
  


“Christ! I’m so sorry, Sassenach!”   
  


“I think I’ve broken my nose!” My hand flew to my face, patting around my nose for signs of blood, trying in vain to check for a break in the cartilage.  
  


He let out a little laugh and I cast a look of absolute disbelief at him for it.   
  


“No, ye haven’t. When ye break yer nose It makes a nasty crunching sound and ye bleed like a pig.”

 

He lent down and kissed the bridge of my nose, and we both let out a laugh. Jamie looked down at me again and placed a kiss on my lips, grinning as he did so. We were like messy teenagers, rife with inexperience and excitement.   
  


The lust between us caught again, and the kiss deepened until I found myself gasping with an insatiable thirst to finally have him. There was no foreplay, no desire to tease and tempt to the brink of oblivion. We wanted each other, needed one another to slake a greed we’d felt burning for weeks. Jamie moved a little down my body and began pressing kisses up my chest, between the valley of my breasts until again, we were face to face and nothing else lay between us.   
  


My words came breathless and begging, “Do it now, and don’t be gentle.”  
  


Within a moment he was inside, thrusting his hips so hard I felt for a mind void of all conscious thought, unable to articulate any response. Each of his thrusts were punctuated with gasps, urging each other forward to our ending bliss. My fingers pulled at his hair, gripping at the sheets around me trying to find an anchor to hold me in the moment.   
  


“Oh God!” Jamie gasped into my mouth, kissing me again. “Claire!”   
  


He urged forward until finally, finally the wave of heat hit me with blinding force, swallowing me up into fierce delight. All words, senses and surroundings melted away, and I became only aware of the feeling of Jamie’s body collapsing to my side.

 

Jamie’s hot, heavy breaths blew against my neck as he regained clarity and consciousness from his own orgasm. When finally, we turned to one another, eyes open, I saw a light in his expression that seemed as though he looked right through me to my very conscience, my soul.

 

My fingertips trailed his face, feeling the bones of his face and the rough stubble that graced his strong jaw. There were no more words to be said, nothing more.   
  


We kissed again, and slept.  
  


———————–

 

In the depths of the night, we’d both woken. The room was cold, and filled with a dull orange haze from the lights outside, but the lines of Jamie’s face were just visible enough that I might make out the small smile that hadn’t left his face.

 

There is a conversation that every couple finds themselves having at some point, one I liked to call  _“Exactly what are you to the other, and what are you together?”_. Jamie and I had hardly had time to have any real conversation about either of these things, trying to focus instead on working together to train and create the competition portfolio.  
  


It had been hanging over us, with every kiss, sweet caress and word whispered until finally, there we finally found ourselves without a wall between us. With brushed cotton blankets wrapped to our shoulders, hands clasped and hearts full to bursting, Jamie broke the silence.  
  


“Ye remember ye said we had a lot to talk about?”   
  


“I do.”  
  


“I don’t think there’s an awful lot anymore.” He retorted, blinking several times before letting out a breath I was sure he’d been holding.   
  


I stared at him, contemplating his comment. In truth there wasn’t. If my decision to return hadn’t cemented it, then last night really had.  
  


“You feel it too, don’t you?” I asked, burning a little with desire and something new, and permanent. There had been a feeling from the beginning, one I had barely acknowledged but could feel to the very marrow of my bones.   
  


He simply nodded, pressing a kiss to my lips. “When you touch me, and I you – “  
  


“It’s not the same, is it?” I whispered in return, looking across the lines of his face.  
  


“No, Sassenach, it’s not. I don’t think it ever will be.”  
  


“You remember you said you’d miss me even if we hadn’t met?” He nodded, moving his left hand to cup my face. “I don’t think I could leave you, and I don’t know if I ever want to.”

“I think it’s always been forever for me, Sassenach.”

His words were a sudden weight on my heart, squeezing tight the soft flesh beneath my rib cage. The moment he’d stood in front of me in Gleneagles with his confident correction, then in Broch Morda with his sorry eyes and at the wedding, with Fergus and the moment we danced the last song, he’d been forever.  
  


————————  
  


When I woke the next morning, I was overcome with the strangest sense of déjà vu, one that was not unpleasant in the least, however.  
  


We had been tucked together, speaking the soft words of revelation and holding one another tightly in thanks to those that had brought us together. We hadn’t moved, instead just enjoying the sensation of not being alone. Sleep had pooled in our eyes as the heavy axe of sleep fell, taking us into the far depths of our dreams.  
  


During our dreams we repositioned ourselves; Jamie’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist, holding me flush against the lines of his body as if to never let me go again. I turned a little toward him and watched for a moment, my eyes committing to memory a sight I never thought I would see again. The same beautiful face, the same sweet smile; a flaming halo of copper hair lying snakelike against the cotton pillows.  
  


A moment passed before again he woke, and in seeing my face, the same delight appeared in his own expression.  
  


“Hello.”

“Hello.” I replied, our voices both rough with the remains of sleep.

We took in the sight of one another again, this new feeling as old as time itself.

“I didn’t think I’d do this again.” He whispered, trailing his fingertips across my face, tangling in my hair.

“Neither did I.” I replied, running my fingers down the lines of his collar bones.

“And yet here we are.”

The both of us smiled, as though sharing a new secret yet to be known by the world.

Here we were, together.    
  


———————————————–

  
The morning had passed so wonderfully I had been unwilling to leave it behind. It had played out like something from a movie; Jamie and I had cooked a breakfast together, talked about everything and nothing, found ourselves making love again on the living room floor, before finally getting ready and leaving for the train station.  
  
At some point into the journey, the realisation had suddenly hit me that for some reason, I was always the one leaving Jamie behind somewhere when I didn’t particularly want to. He’d be standing watching me drift off back to Auchterarder again, only this time neither of us were as ashen faced as we had been mere days ago.  
  
It would be days before I would see him again, knowing that we both had to return to our kitchens to avoid any potential trouble. We were professionals, and despite the callings of the heart, we had to work.  
  
“Would it be daft of me to say I don’t want you to go?”  
  
“No, not at all. I don’t particularly want to, but the kitchen calls.”  
  
“Aye, can’t escape the siren call of pastry in the morning, can you?” He laughed, taking hold of my hands and pulling me again into his arms. I closed my eyes, breathing deep the smell of his cologne and the warmth of his skin.  
  
The blue lines of the ScotRail train flashed past us like bolts of lightning against dreich skies, pulling to a slow stop beside us.  
  
“I’ll call when I get to the restaurant, promise.” I assured him, leaning into him once more for a final kiss goodbye.  
  
“Oh, pass on my thanks to Suzette for her excellent advice when ye get there? Forgot to mention the first time.”  
  
A laughter burst from my chest and tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”  
  
With a final kiss, and one last embrace, I stepped onto the train as the doors closed behind me. The train pulled away, and slowly Jamie fell into the oblivion of the distance behind me.    
  


———–>>>>>>>>>>>>>>————–

**  
**Days more passed while we waited for the news of our entry. The sickness that had lingered over me the whole day of the competitor’s announcement had been quite frankly horrible. I could feel the clock stretching, pulling the hours laboriously as I waited I’d checked my phone a dozen times an hour, making sure it was charged and the volume was up as loud as physically possible.  
  


Jamie had sent messages since the daybreak, constantly reassuring and trying to be as cheerful as possible in the face of the anxiety and worry we both felt. While I was very confident in our abilities, I was wary of the level of competition that faced us. The people that entered these competitions were not to be trifled with, and had been working far longer than Jamie and my careers combined. I just hoped that he was right.  
  


I’d volunteered to do phone orders most of the morning, trying to keep my mind as busy as possible while I waited for Jamie’s arrival. Suzette had remarked that she hadn’t seem me so nervous in several years, bringing back the tale of the night one of the Michelin judges had come into the restaurant and we had been the only two to recognise her. The service itself had gone perfectly, but she and I had been so nervous our hands had been shaking like leaves on a tree during a hurricane.  
  
It would be fine, it would. I just had to wait.

 

————–

 

Jamie arrived at the restaurant at 3:45pm, loitering in the foyer of the restaurant making small talk with Ginny. The moment I’d clocked him I’d almost thrown a pan of bubbling caramel over myself, nerves shot to hell knowing that sometime in the next half hour we’d find out our fate. Suzette had immediately stepped over to my side, taken hold of the saucepan and settled it back onto the heat.  
  
“Make sure you come back in if you’ve gotten through, okay? Jamie will have you heading off before I get chance to give you a cuddle.” Suzette quipped, pouring the double cream to the pan, stepping back from its vigorous hissing and bubbling as it turned to a blissful honeycomb.  
  
“Head off?” I asked, looking to her with brows knitted.  
  
A look of knowledge and authority crossed her face, “Starting from right now you’ve got the weekend off – and before you argue it’s all been agreed to.”  
  
“How in the – “  
  
“You’ve two guardian angels and another that I’m fairly sure loves you – even if he’s not said so yet.” Suzette stepped away from the stove top, placed two kisses on my cheeks, took hold of my shoulders and turned me out of the kitchen toward the locker room. “Go enjoy your weekend!”

 

—————————————  
  
  


Jamie and I both near ran to one another, meeting in an embrace filled with excitement and nerves. His arms wrapped right around my back, holding me still while my heart ran riotously through my chest. We took refuge in one of the lounges, his hand holding my sturdily and waited with impatience.  
  


“Whatever happens,” He’d started, placing a hand to my cheek reassuringly, “you are one of the best Pastry Chef’s I’ve ever known. This competition doesn’t change or invalidate all of your achievements.”  
  


I leant forward and kissed him, holding his jaw in my own hand before returning my gaze to the clock hanging on the wall. Time continued to laboriously tick by until finally, the chime of four pm sung. My eyes darted to my phone, waiting with bated breath for the call that could come any minute.  
  


Five minutes passed.

“They must be busy calling everyone else, right?” I’d asked Jamie, who had assured me with a smile and a nod.  
  


Then ten minutes more.  
  


“Just a bit of a delay, Sassenach.” He’d said cheerfully, squeezing my hand.  
  


By 5pm, the fact was set in stone.  
  


The call hadn’t come, and we wouldn’t be competing.  
  


I wasn’t sure what I felt more; relief, anger, or the bitter taste of disappointment. We had worked tirelessly on the submission, putting half a dozen hours into creating the bonbon, petit four and chocolate craft needed for the portfolio. But it appeared, our efforts had not been enough.  
  


I felt a fool. I’d had such hopes for us, had been so damned sure that we would get through to the next round in the very least. I’d begun thinking about the desserts for the competition itself, wondering how we’d manage it and how I’d spent my share of the winnings. Letting yourself get carried away with the fantasy of something was easy enough, but when there’s a real chance that you might win, you convince yourself its less fantasy and more an obvious reality.

 

Jamie looked as despondent as I felt, and the two of us sat together unable to summon the right words. We were still exceptional chefs, I still worked for Chef Fairlie and Jamie still had Broch Morda. We were still going to have fantastic careers – but for a moment, we were so close to being that little bit more.  
  


After a while had passed, and the dust of disappointment had settled, I found myself able to make only one request.  
  


“Take me home?” My voice wobbled with tears of bitter disappointment, my heart sinking heavily like a stone in water.    
  


Without a word, he’d taken my hand, packed me into the car and driven through winding roads straight to Lallybroch.

 

——————————->>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>———————————

  
In the morning, I woke in their Laird’s bedroom gathered in Jamie’s arms with the sun shining through lead-lined windows. The blissful moment between waking and realising what happened yesterday was incredibly short, and I willed myself to sleep again so I could spend another twenty minutes trying to forget how annoyed and disappointed I felt.  

————

 

We’d arrived at the house in the late evening, the remains of the light long gone and the silhouette of Lallybroch standing tall against the star spotted sky. We were both disappointed, and it showed. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed for the night and try to completely forget the fact that it felt like it was my fault we’d failed. Jamie had agreed to my portfolio, sure, but I had designed it and I was team captain. I’d tried to think of everything we could’ve done wrong, imagining every detail of the pieces and where we might’ve slipped up. Of course, Jamie had known what I was thinking and had walked over to my sorry self, sitting like a disappointed child on the sofa by the fire, and handed me a large dream of peated whisky.  
  
Placing his own glass onto the top of the fireplace, he’d knelt down to his knee, taking hold of my hands and said, “Competition be damned. That portfolio was brilliant, and don’t you doubt that. We can spend tonight being disappointed, but we have our careers, our successes and each other. And that, Sassenach, will always be worth more to me than any competition.”  
  
He’d looked at me with such sincerity that I’d started crying, feeling ridiculous in doing so.  
  
After a while, we’d started doing what I’d always called ‘ _The Lottery Talk’_ where you think up what you would spend your lottery winnings on if your numbers came up. We went from the ridiculous to the realistic; holidays for Jamie’s family, a real honeymoon for Jenny and Ian. He would put money aside for Fergus, repair a little more of Lallybroch and start to get together the permissions for his own restaurant. I’d mentioned a holiday, a new car and a restaurant - perhaps I would’ve back to Paris for a little while.  
  
“If I had won I’d have taken you and Fergus with me – to Paris. You’d both love Rouen and I’d love to take Fergus to Vianne’s Chocolatier, see if it’s still there.”  
  
Jamie had looked a little awe-filled when I’d mentioned the idea of bringing Fergus somewhere with me, with us. It took me a moment to realise that all those weeks ago he’d been nervous to tell me about Fergus, to know that he was a single adopting father. Now, I wanted to bring the boys with me to share in my memories. I wondered if this was the forever that Jamie had mentioned.  
  
We’d gone to sleep hours later, making our way up to the Jamie’s bedroom together, nestled in one another’s arms under the watchful heart of Lallybroch.

 

———–

 

“Is that yer phone ringing, Sassenach?” Jamie asked abruptly, interrupting my brief return to sleep. I looked up at him with confusion, hearing the noise of my phone ringing beside the bed. Leaping up, I plucked my bag from the floor and dug through it to find the screen lit with an unknown number.   
  


I stared at it with suspicion, falling back into the warmth of the bedsheets.

 

“Hello?” I asked cautiously.

 

A male voice came from the other end of the phone, polite with a hint of an unidentifiable accent. “Hello, is this Claire Beauchamp?”

I clicked on the speaker function, holding the phone between us. “It is yes, who may I ask is calling?”  
  


“Hello Claire, my name is Marcel Gable. I’m calling on behalf of the World Chocolatier Championship? I’m terribly sorry but we had an issue with our telephones yesterday and we were unable to make any telephone calls.”  
  
My heart began to pound uncontrollably as Jamie sat up bolt straight, his hand resting on my knee. Marcel continued, his voice filled with something sounding like… excitement. I couldn’t speak, struck dumb with what this phone call meant. 

“We wanted to inform you that you have been successful in your submission and we would like to invite you to compete in our competition stage.”  
  


Jamie cheered so loudly I jumped out of my skin with fright, a laugh sounding from Marcel down the phone. “I assume you would be pleased to accept the invitation?”

 

“Thrilled! We would be thrilled to accept!” I half shouted, tears stinging my eyes with such elation at the news.

 

“Wonderful! We’ll email you shortly with some additional information and paperwork for you both to complete. If you have any questions please do contact us, otherwise we shall see you shortly.”

 

“Thank you! We’re very much looking forward to it. Goodbye for now.”

“Bye now!” I managed to squeak out before Jamie pulled me up into his arms and started peppering my face with kisses.  
  


“I knew it! I knew they’d be mad to say no to us!”

I kissed Jamie a dozen times, hugging him with as much might as I could muster. We’d done it, we had actually done it. Despite everything I’d thought yesterday, the feelings of bitter disappointment – we’d made it. And it was all down to a damned phone problem that we hadn’t found out the news. The dreams we’d talked about, the hopes we had for ourselves were suddenly again a possibility and I felt nothing short of ecstatic.  
  
My phone sounded again with my email alert and with shaking hands I’d unlocked the device and opened the email.

 

“You read it,” I thrust my phone into Jamie’s hands, “I’m too nervous to even try to.”  
  
Jamie laughed, kissed me sweetly again and cleared his throat comically;  
  


_“Team Beauchamp,_

_Congratulations! We are delighted to offer you a position in The World Chocolatier Championship taking place in Edinburgh from the 24_ th to 26th of this month. You have been selected from over two thousand applications to take part in a three-day event that will see the crème de la crème of the pastry and chocolate world come together.  
  


_For this year’s event, we are honoured to announce that our Head of Judges is three-time Michelin starred chef – “_  
  


Jamie’s eyes widened at the screen before slowly drawing up to meet mine with an expression reading somewhere between disbelief and wild excitement.    
  


“ _Vianne Raymond.”_  
  


 

-      CHAPTER END -


End file.
